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THE 



DRAMATIC WORKS 



OF 



RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 



WITH 



A BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL SKETCH. 



BY LEIGH HUNT. 




LONDON: 
EDWARD MOXON, DOVER STREET. 

MDCCOXtVl. 






*n* 



LONDON : 
nRADBl/ftY AND HVANS, PKINTEHS, WHITKPTIAF1S. 



£9 



CONTENTS. 



PAGS 

BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL SKETCH vii 

THE RIVALS 1 

ST. PATRICK'S DAY; OR, THE SCHEMING LIEUTENANT 31 

THE DUENNA 39 

A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH 58 

THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 78 

THE CAMP 108 

THE CRITIC ; OR, A TRAGEDY REHEARSED 117 

PIZARRO 134 



BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL SKETCH 



OF 



RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN 



BY LEIGH HUNT. 



■piCHARD BRINSLEY BUTLER SHERIDAN (for so he was christened, after 
■*■* Brinsley Butler, second Earl of Lanesborough, though he dropped the latter name 
in his signature) was born in Dorset Street, Dublin, in the month of September 1751. 
He was the son of Thomas Sheridan, actor and elocutionist, and grandson of Dr. Sheridan, 
a celebrated schoolmaster, the friend of Swift. His mother was Frances Chamberlaine, 
authoress of "Nourjahad" and "Sidney Biddulph." He went to school, first in 
Dublin, and afterwards at Harrow ; and was so careless at both places, and acquired 
so little, that his Irish schoolmaster pronounced him " an impenetrable dunce," and 
the masters at Harrow, though they discerned his capacity, could do nothing with it, 
either by severity or indulgence. When he left Harrow, he could not spell ; and he 
seems to have pronounced as badly, if we are to judge from his writing think for thing; 
but his aristocratic schoolfellows surpassed him in vulgarity of mind, for they taunted 
him with being the son of a player. 

On leaving school, he did not go to the university, probably because his father was 
poor ; yet, in spite of his inaptitude for being taught, which continued the same at 
home, his inclination to letters was so great, that he and a schoolfellow (Halhed 
whose vivacity afterwards made so strange an end in the dull mysticism of Brothers) 
had already entered into a sort of partnership of wit and versification, which they now 
proposed to turn to account with the booksellers. The only project, however, which 
they completed, was the translation of a book not worth the trouble, the " Epistles of 
Aristaenetus." 

Sheridan had already got a habit of delay, which spoiled all the projects, both of 
himself and his friends. Yet he now showed what a curious start he could get of 
them, by turning out to be the accepted lover of a young lady, of whom his own 
brother and his friend Halhed were both enamoured, and in whose heart, though they 
both confided to him their passion, they did not know he took any interest. The 



viii BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL SKETCH 

lady was Miss Linley the singer, a beauty then only sixteen, with whom all the world 
were in love. Sheridan ran away with her to a secret marriage in France, where her 
friends thought she had gone to evade all her lovers. He then fought a duel on 
her account with a married scoundrel, who had worried and defamed her ; and, 
finally, on her return to England, and by extorted permission of her father, repeated 
the nuptial ceremony by license in the year 1773. It is said, that while she was 
residing with her angry friends during the interval of the two weddings, and pursuing 
her professional avocations, he more than once disguised himself as a hackney-coachman, 
and drove her home from the oratorios at Covent Garden. 

During the early period of his marriage, Sheridan lived upon part of a sum of three 
thousand pounds, which a good-natured old gentleman had settled upon Miss Linley > 
in default of being able to induce her to marry him : yet so strange were the husband's 
notions of dignity, that he would no longer suffer his wife to earn a subsistence by her 
talents. It appears from Boswell, that Dr. Johnson applauded this pride : but he did 
so, probably, in ignorance of the other circumstance ; certainly in no foresight of the 
shifts and improvidences of Sheridan's life. 

The approaches of want of money, or most likely the pressure of it, appears to have 
hastened the composition of our author's first drama, "The Rivals," which was brought 
out at Covent Garden in January 1775. The admirers of this highly diverting and 
popular comedy are astonished to hear that it failed on its first night. But the circum- 
stance was attributable, chiefly, to the bad acting of one of the performers ; and, on 
the substitution, of another, and the alteration of such passages as a first night's 
experience generally requires to be corrected, the comedy became the favourite which 
it remains. The character of Falkland is thought to have been suggested to the author 
by some tempers of his own during courtship. The wit and trickery of Captain 
Absolute probably lost nothing from similar self-references : nor may Sir Anthony be 
supposed to have been the worse for recollections of the paternal will and pleasure of 
Mr. Sheridan, senior, who was as arbitrary a father as rhetorician. Mrs. Malaprop is 
a caricature, but a very amusing one, of Mrs. Slipslop. Even her " allegory on the 
banks of the Nile," however, must yield to the other's anger in behalf of the " frail 
sect." i Sheridan's wit is more sparkling, but does not go so deep as Fielding's. 
Neither is it so good-natured. There is little intimation of tenderness in it, or of the 
habitual consideration of anything but some jest at somebody's expense. The kindness 
of Sir Peter Teazle towards his wife is but a sort of dotage, mixed up with the selfishness 
of unequal years. It was not in Sheridan's nature to invent a Parson Adams, or Sir Roger 
de Coverley ; much less to venture upon an heroical character in the shape of a footman. 

The gaiety of success, and, some say, gratitude to the good actor who was substi- 
tuted for the bad one in Sir Lucius O'Trigger, produced in the ensuing spring the farce 
of "St. Patrick's Day, or the. Scheming Lieutenant," which turns upon an amusing 
trick a la Moliere, and met with the like prosperity ; and the author's animal spirits 
thus gaining triumph upon triumph, he devoted the summer to an opera (" The 
Duenna "), which, assisted by the sprightly and characteristic melodies of his father- 
in-law, Mr. Linley, came out in the autumn and succeeded to admiration. The 



OF RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN 



incidents are not new, but are very cleverly put together ; the dialogue is smart and 
unsuperfluous, like all his comic writing ; the more humorous characters are not very- 
agreeable, and there is too much jesting upon personal defects, but they are very 
amusing ; and if the poetry has little claim to that most abused term, it is very good 
town poetry, — full of pretty turns and epigrammatic points, and even as like earnestness 
of feeling, as such art well can be. It is clear that the heart is generally subordinate 
to the will, and the passion little but a restless, though elegant, sensuality. His table 
songs are always admirable. When he was drinking wine, he was thoroughly in earnest. 
A passage in one of his letters at this period, shows a strange instance of that 
subjection of the greater to the less, of the universal to the conventional, which, as it is 
the very essence of the factitious importance of the leaders of artificial life, becomes 
the ruin of poetry in their worshippers. But here even wit was dismayed ! " Orrnsby," 
says he, " has sent me a silver branch (candlestick) on the score of ' The Duenna.' 
This will cost me, what of all things I am least free of, a letter ; and it should have 
been a poetical one too, if the present had been any piece of plate but a candlestick ! 
I believe I must melt it into a bowl, to make verse on it ; for there is no possibility of 
bringing candle, candlestick, or snuffers, into metre. However, as the gift was owing 
to the Muse, and the manner of it very friendly, I believe I shall try to jingle a little 
on the occasion ; at least, a few such stanzas as might gain a cup of tea from the urn 
at Bath-Easton." Poor victim of the prose of a "candlestick! " Light itself, and the 
fire of Apollo, could do nothing for him ! nor the wax of the bee, nor love, nor lucubra- 
tion, nor even the Greek Anthology ! We wonder what he thought of that pretty 
feminine speech of the lady in " The Merchant of Venice," when she is going home, and 
sees a light in her window : 

How far that little candle throws its beams ! 
So shines a good deed in a naughty world. 

Or that other in " Romeo and Juliet," where Shakspeare, applying the word to the 
very stars, seems to identify them with the artificial lights of our earthly night-time, 
in order to dismiss them with the better grace before the freshness and hilarity of 
day-light : 

Night's candles are burn'd out, and jocund day 
Stands tip-toe on the misty mountain tops. 

How wit itself seems to vanish, like a squalid reveller, before the coming of that 
happy god ! But Sheridan, if we are not mistaken, was no great believer in Shak- 
speare. 

Our author now became one of the -proprietors of Drury Lane Theatre ; iiow, nobody 
can tell — for nobody knew where the money came from ; probably, as in the case of 
his friend Richardson afterwards, from some wealthy nobleman. This cunning and 
reserve, mixed with pride, does not sit well upon a jovial man of the town ; nor did 
it do him good afterwards, out of whatever immediate necessities it helped him. It 
only seemed to tempt him into more ; for, strangely enough, where such a quality was 
present, it was the only provident part of his character. Luxury and delay beset all 



BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL SKETCH 



the rest of it ; so that his very wit ended in doing him no good, even as the proprietor 
of a theatre, but by affording him unwieldy, uneasy, and, finally, insufficient means of 
warding off debts, and encouraging the ruin it delayed. 

Sheridan's animal spirits, however, which were also among the causes of his ruin — 
perhaps the chief cause, in a worldly sense, — had the good luck, or misfortune, whichever 
the reader pleases to call it, of making trouble and difficulty less painful to him than 
to most men. He doubtless extracted a great deal of pleasure from most of the days 
of his brilliant career, as long as it remained brilliant, and health and strength were 
not wanting. And we have now come to the moment when he was at the height of 
it, that of- the production of " The School for Scandal," in the year 1777. It was pre- 
ceded by the re-fashionment, not worth more than alluding to, of Vanbragh's " Relapse," 
under the title of "A Trip to Scarborough." He was at this period six-and- twenty, 
an age at which many prose comic writers have, produced their best, though Shakspeare 
himself could hardly have given us " Lear " and " Hamlet." But this apparent pre- 
cocity has excited more admiration than it deserves ; for the truth is, that the " great 
world" of artificial society is a very little world to become intimate with, compared 
with Shakspeare 's. Passions there, like modes, run very much in patterns, and lie 
on the surface ; and folly, which is the object of satire, is by its nature a thing defective, 
and therefore sooner read through than the wisdom of the wise, or the universality of 
nature. A man, like Sheridan or Congreve, may very well know all that is to be 
known in the circles of conventional grace or absurdity, by the time he has spent more 
than half his life. Feeling he needs but little, imagination not at all. The stars might 
be put out, the ocean drunk up, almost everything which makes the universe what it 
is might vanish, including the heart of man in its largest and deepest sense, and if a 
single ball-room survived, like some foolish fairy corner, he might still be what he is. 
A little fancy and a good deal of scorn, a terseness, a polish, and a sense of the incon- 
gruous, are all the requisites of his nature, — admirable in the result, compared with 
what is inferior to them, — nothing (so to speak) by the side of the mighty waters, and 
interminable shores, and everlasting truth and graces, of the masters of the dramatic 
art poetical, 

" The School for Scandal," with the exception of too great a length of dialogue with- 
out action in its earlier scenes, is a very concentration and crystallization of all that is 
sparkling, clear, and compact, in the materials of prose comedy ; as elegantly elaborate, 
but not so redundant or apparently elaborate, as the wittiest scenes of Congreve, and 
containing the most complete and exquisitely wrought-up bit of effect in the whole 
circle of comedy — the screen scene. Yet none of the characters, hardly even Sir Peter, 
can be said to be agreeable ; certainly not Charles Surface, unless performed with a 
flow of spirits perhaps beyond what the author intended. He is almost as selfish as 
his brother Joseph, and makes pretensions to generosity hardly less provoking. His 
inclusion of Lady Teazle among the objects of his mockeiy in the screen-scene, is 
particularly unhandsome and ungallant. But the author thought it necessary to the 
perfection of the joke, and therefore nobody was to be spared. Of Sir Peter we have 
said more in a former passage. It is painful to witness the depth of reverential silence 



OF RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN 



with which the audience see him give his wife a bank-bill for two hundred pounds. 
The whole commercial heart of England seems to be suddenly on the spot, awed by 
seeing all that virtue going out of it. 

The year 1779 produced " The Critic ; " and, after a long political interval, his con- 
tributions to the stage concluded in the years 1798 and 1799 with adaptations of 
other people's versions of "The Stranger " and " Pizarro." " The Critic," though in 
some of its most admired passages little better than an exquisite cento of the wit of 
satirists before him, is a worthy successor to " The Rehearsal " of the Duke of Bucking- 
ham, and even to Beaumont and Fletcher's " Knight of the Burning Pestle ; " though 
the last has the far superior merit to both, of being at once their original, and the 
work of poetry as well as wit. Sheridan must have felt himself emphatically at home 
in a production of this kind; for there was every call in it upon the powers he 
abounded in, — wit, banter, and 6tyle, — and none upon his* good-nature. It is 
observable, however, and not a little edifying to observe, that when those who excel 
in a spirit of satire above everything else, come to attempt serious specimens of the 
poetiy and romance whose exaggerations they ridicule, they make ridiculous mistakes 
of their own, and of the very same kind : so allied is habitual want of faith with want 
of all higher power. The style of " The Stranger " is poor and pick- thank enough ; 
but " Pizarro," in its highest flights, is downright booth at a fair — a tall spouting 
gentleman in tinsel. 

We say little, in this sketch, of our author's political life ; but it cannot be passed 
over, whenever his biography is at all concerned ; and, indeed, every man's existence 
is more or less of a piece, and serves to elucidate the particular phases of it, however 
inconsistent they may appear. Sheridan seems to have become a Whig, as most men 
become anything, by accident, and by the circumstances of early connexion and intro- 
duction. He had not the cordial fellowship and overflowing good-nature of Fox. He 
did not become a partisan out of sympathy. Neither, on the other hand, had his 
egotism pride or passion enough, to be capable of the resentments and apostacies 
of Burke. He had a strong, a sensual, and therefore essentially coarse nature, 
none the less so for a veil of refined language, which was his highest notion of 
the dress of the heart ; but his very animal spirits, and contentment with the pleasure 
of the moment, served to keep him from dishonest aims. He stuck to his party, as he 
did to the wine ; and if he did not ultimately abide by it in its corporate sense, when 
its public virtue was put to a test apart from private considerations, he may still be 
said, in adhering to the Prince, to have stuck to the last man at the table, influenced 
by a certain jovial disinterestedness as well as conventional vanity. In the famous trial 
of Hastmgs, which produced his highest oratorical flights, (and extraordinary they 
certainly were, though ludicrously overrated by Burke,) it may be said of its three 
great conductors, that a sort of jealous hatred of wrong was the inspirer of Burke, the 
love of right that of Fox, and the opportunity of making a display at somebody's 
expense that of Sheridan, without any very violent care* either for right or wrong. He 
had perhaps indeed never been thoroughly in earnest during his life, except in having 
his way at the moment, and making his case out somehow with his mistress, his wit, or 



BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL SKETCH 



his bottle, crowned by as much love for consistency and good-fellowship as is caught 
in maxims over the wine, and which is incomparably better than none. 

In the year 1792, Sheridan lost his first wife, whom we can never help fancying 
to have been of a nature too refined for him ; and in 1795, being then in his forty- 
fourth year, he married his second, Miss Ogle, daughter of a Dean of Winchester, a 
lady " young and accomplished, and ardently devoted to him ; " — so fascinating is 
fame and wit, and the power of enlivening the present moment. Miss Ogle brought 
him a fortune, also, of five thousand pounds ; and with this sum, and fifteen thousand 
more, "which he contrived," says his biographer, "to raise by the sale of Drury 
Lane shares," an estate was bought in Surrey, where he was to live in love and happi- 
ness, till drink and his duns could endure it no longer. For, alas ! he had long been 
in difficulties, but knew not how to retreat. A certain show of prosperity seemed to 
be necessary to him, to convince his unspiritual soul of the presence of any kind of 
happiness ; and thus, through perpetual show and struggle, and every species of 
ingenious, eloquent, and, it is feared, sometimes degrading shift, — helping his party 
occasionally with a promising effort, but gradually degenerating into a useless though 
amusing speaker, — familiarly joked at by the public, admired but disesteemed by his 
friends, seeing his theatrical property come to worse than nothing in his hands, without 
energy or perhaps power to retrieve himself by his pen, secretly assailed by disease, 
and at last threatened by every kind of domestic discomfort, — this brilliant man 
dragged out a heavy remainder of existence between solaces that made him worse, and 
a loyalty to his Prince which did him no good. He died near a dying wife, amidst the 
threats of bailiffs, and forsaken by that Prince, and by all but his physician and a few 
poetic friends, (God bless the imagination that leaves men in possession of their hearts !) 
on Sunday the 7th July, 1816, in Saville Row, Burlington Gardens, and in the sixty- 
fifth year of his age. When his accounts were settled, it was a surprise to every- 
body to find for how small a sum, comparatively speaking, improvidence had rendered 
him insolvent. His death should never be mentioned without adding the names of 
his physician, Dr. Bain, Mr. Rogers, Mr. Thomas Moore, and Lord Holland, as those 
of his last and, we believe, only comforters. It is a remarkable and painful instance 
of the predominance of the conventional and superficial in his feelings, even when they 
were most strongly and deeply excited, that after going through life with apparently a 
laughing carelessness as to troubles far more humiliating, he burst into tears, and 
complained of his "person" being "degraded," because a bailiff had touched him! 
That word " person " expresses all. 

Sheridan was above the middle size, and of a make robust and well-proportioned. 
In his youth, his family said, he had been handsome ; but, in his latter years, he had 
nothing left to show for it but his eyes. " It was, indeed, in the upper part of his face," 
says Mr. Moore, " that the spirit of the man chiefly reigned ; the dominion of the 
world and the senses being rather strongly marked out in the lower." He had a 
brother, Charles Sheridan, who took office in Ireland, and appears to have deviated 
neither into the vices nor the virtues of Richard. His sisters, Mrs. Lefanu and 
another, seem to have been more amiable, resembling, both in that respect and in 



OF RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 



talents, their excellent mother, the authoress of " Sidney Biddulph." Yet we do not 
find that Sheridan took much notice of them, or returned the regard which they 
fondly showed him at a distance. His son, by his first wife, Thomas, who died in 
the prime of life, is said to have inherited the mothers sweetness of nature as well as 
the father's wit. He also partook of her beauty, and he thus became the fortunate 
means of perpetuating the best distinctions of both families, the Sheridans and Linleys, 
in the persons of his children. The Sheridans, indeed, may be added to the list of 
Boyles, Bernouillis, and other families, as one in which intellect has been hereditary ; 
for Dr. Sheridan, the grandfather, though he preferred his jest, and his fiddle, and 
his stockings down at heel, to a more solid reputation and prosperity, (first germ, 
perhaps, and excuse of his grandson !) was a really learned and able man. The father 
(the actor and elocutionist) was a man of abilities also, in spite of his pedantry and 
pragmaticalness ; (he thought to advance the national morals by the diffusion of his 
" Ait of Speaking! ") and what he wanted towards augmenting the intellectual celebrity 
of his race, was abundantly supplied by his wife. Their son was the author of "The 
Rivals" and "The School for Scandal." He married a "charmer" for beauty and 
for song ; and, to say nothing of the collateral branches, all clever and witty, seldom, 
indeed, have " God Almighty's nobility " come in a cluster so dazzling as in the 
present fair representatives of the direct Linley and Sheridan line — the three graces 
of Dufferin, Norton, and Seymour. 

We have omitted to mention one circumstance in the composition of Sheridan's plays, 
highly characteristic of the mistrusting and artificial habits of his mind ; namely, the 
extreme and constant care with which they were elaborated, and brought to their final 
state of terseness and polish. He kept memorandums of his wit, for use ; pickled and 
potted up the sentences in which it was expressed ; and now and then gave them a 
new turn, to improve the relish. Since writing our criticism, we have met with a 
striking remark on Sheridan and Congreve, in a masterly article on " Machiavelli " in 
the Edinburgh Preview, (short only of perfection, as it seems to us, in not paying quite 
enough attention to the individual nature of that great man, who from defect, not of 
complexional good-nature, but the imaginative faculty, may be called a Shakspeare 
without a heart). Perhaps hardly allowance enough is made in the passage we allude 
to, for the artificial nature of comedy itself, as a thing conversant with manners and 
superinduced qualities, rather than with passions and pure nature ; but it appears to 
us a just as well as eloquent exposure of the injury done to the animal spirits and 
delightfulness of the very best kind of comedy, by the cold and critical excess of the 
brilliant verbiage of these writers ; — a wit, as the reviewer well observes, unnaturally 
lavished on all characters indiscriminately, and after all, no better than a hungry want 
of it, compared with the genial superabundance of such a pleasantry as Falstaff's. 

" No writers have injured the comedy of England (says the Reviewer) so deeply as Congreve and 
Sheridan. Both were men of wit and polished taste. Unhappily they made all their characters in 
their own likeness. Their works bear the same relation to the legitimate drama which a transparency 
bears to a painting : no delicate touches : — no hues imperceptibly fading into each other : — the whole 
is lighted up with an universal glare. Outlines and tints arc forgotten in tho blaze which illuminates 



BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL SKETCH 



all. The flowers and fruits of the intellect abound ; but it is the abundance of a jungle, not of a garden 
— unwholesome, bewildering, unprofitable from its very plenty, rank from its very fragrance. Every 
fop, every boor, every valet, is a man of wit. The very butts and dupes, Tattle, Witwoud, Puff, 
Acres, outshine the whole Hotel de Rarribouillet. To prove the whole system of this school absurd, 
it is only necessary to apply the test which dissolves the enchanted Florimel — to place the true by the 
false Thalia, to contrast the most celebrated characters which have been drawn by the writers of whom 
we speak, with the Bastard in ' King John,' or the Nurse in ' Romeo and Juliet.' It was not 
surely from want of wit that Beatrice threw Mirabel and Millamant into the shade. All the good 
sayings of the facetious hours of Absolute and Surface might have been clipped from the single 
character of Falstaff without being missed. It would have been easy for that fertile mind to have given 
Bardolph and Shallow as much wit as Prince Hal, and to have made Dogberry and Verges retort on 
each other in sparkling epigrams. But he knew, to use his own admirable language, that such indis- 
criminate prodigality was 'from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was, and 
is, to hold, as it were, the mirror up to Nature.' " — Edinburgh Review, March 1827, p. 278. 

This extract has rendered it desirable that the author of " The School for Scandal " 
and " The Rivals " should have the benefit of what has been said in his favour by 
Mr. Hazlitt ; and with the opinion .of that admirable critic we accordingly conclude, 
in order to leave as pleasant an impression as possible on the minds of those, who shall 
proceed from a perusal of this sketch to that of the plays before them. 

" Mr. Sheridan has been justly called f a dramatic star of the first magnitude : ' and, indeed, among 
the comic writers of the last century, he c shines like Hesperus among the lesser lights.' He has left 
four several dramas behind him, all different or of different kinds, and all excellent in their way ; ' The 
School for Scandal,' ' The Rivals,' * The Duenna,' and ' The Critic' The attraction of this last piece 
is, however, less in the mock-tragedy rehearsed, than in the dialogue of the comic scenes, and in the 
character of Sir Fretful Plagiary, which is supposed to have been intended for Cumberland. If some 
of the characters in < The School for Scandal ' were contained in Murphy's comedy of « Know your 
own Mind,' (and certainly some of Dashwood 's detached speeches and satirical sketches are written with 
quite as firm and masterly a hand as any of those given to the members of the scandalous club, Mrs. 
Candour or Lady Sneerwell), yet they were buried in it for want of grouping and relief, like the colours 
of a well-drawn picture sunk in the canvas. Sheridan brought them out, and exhibited them in all 
their glory. If that gem, the character of Joseph Surface, was Murphy's, the splendid and more 
valuable setting was Sheridan's. He took Murphy's Malvil from his lurking-place in the closet, and 
' dragged the struggling monster into day ' upon the stage. Tnat is, he gave interest, life, and action, 
or, in other words, its dramatic being, to the mere conception and written specimens of a character. 
This is the merit of Sheridan's comedies, that everything in them tells ; there is no labour in vain. 
His Comic Muse does not go about prying into obscure corners, or collecting idle curiosities, but shows 
her laughing face, and points to her rich treasure — the follies of mankind. She is garlanded and 
crowned with roses and vine-leaves. Her eyes sparkle with delight, and her heart runs over with good- 
natured malice. Her step is firm and light, and her ornaments consummate ! ^The School for Scandal ' 
is, if not the most original, perhaps the most finished and faultless comedy which we have. When it is 
acted, you hear people all around you exclaiming, ' Surely it is impossible for anything to be cleverer.' 
The scene in which Charles sells all the old family pictures but his uncle's, who is the purchaser 
in disguise, and that of the discovery of Lady Teazle when the screen falls, are among the happiest and 
most highly-wrought that comedy, in its wide and brilliant range, can boast. Besides the wit and 
ingenuity of this play, there is a genial spirit of frankness and generosity about it, that relieves the heart 
as well as clears the lungs. It professes a faith in the natural goodness, as well as habitual depravity 
of human nature. While it strips off the mask of hypocrisy, it inspires a confidence between man and 
man. As often as it is acted, it must serve to clear the air of that low, creeping, pestilent fog of cant 
and mysticism, which threatens to confound every native impulse, or honest conviction, in the nauseous 
belief of a perpetual lie, and the laudable profession of systematic hypocrisy. — The character of Lady 



OF RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 



Teazle is not well made out by the author ; nor has it been well represented on the stage since the 
time of Miss Farren>—< The Rivals ' is a play of even more action and incident, but of less wit and 
satire than i The School for Scandal.' It is as good as a novel in the reading, and has the broadest and 
most palpable effect on the stage. If Joseph Surface and Cliarles have a smack of Tom Jones and 
Blifil in their moral constitution, Sir Anthony Absolute and Mrs. Malaprop remind us of honest 
Matthew Bramble and his sister Tabitha, in their tempers and dialect. Acres is a distant descendant 
of Sir Andrew Aguecheek. It must be confessed of this author, as Falstaff says of some one, 'that he 
had damnable iteration in him ! ' ' The Duenna ' is a perfect work of art. It has the utmost sweetness 
and point. The plot, the characters, the dialogue, are all complete in themselves, and they are all his 
own ; and the songs are the best that ever were written, except those in the * Beggars' Opera.' They 
have a joyous spirit of intoxication in them, and a strain of the most melting tenderness. Compare 
the softness of that beginning, 

' Had I a heart for falsehood framed,' 

with the spirited defiance to Fortune in the lines, 

' Half thy malice youth could bear, 
And the rest a bumper drown.' 

" It would have been too much for the author of these elegant and classic productions not to have had 
some drawbacks on his felicity and fame. But even the applause of nations and the favour of princes 
cannot always be enjoyed with impunity. — Sheridan was not only an excellent dramatic writer, but a 
first-rate parliamentary speaker. His characteristics as an orator were manly, unperverted good sense, 
and keen irony. Wit, which has been thought a two-edged weapon, was by him always employed on 
the same side of the question — I think, on the right one. His set and more laboured speeches, as that 
on the Begum's affairs, were proportionably abortive and unimpressive : but no one was equal to him 
in replying, on the spur of the moment, to pompous absurdity, and unravelling the web of flimsy 
sophistry. He was the last accomplished debater of the House of Commons." — Lectures on the 
Comic Writers, p. 334. 



THE RIVALS 

& ©omrtrg. 



PREFACE. 

A preface to a play seems generally to be considered as a kind of closet-prologue, in which— if his piece has been 
successful — the author solicits that indulgence from the reader which he had before experienced from the audience : 
but as the scope and immediate object of a play is to please a mixed assembly in representation (whose judgment in 
the theatre at least is decisive), its degree of reputation is usually as determined as public, before it can be prepared 
for the cooler tribunal of the study. Thus any farther solicitude on the part of the writer becomes unnecessary at 
least, if not an intrusion : and if the piece has been condemned in the performance, I fear an address to the closet, like 
an appeal to posterity, is constantly regarded as the procrastination of a suit, from a consciousness of the weakness 
of the cause. From these considerations, the following comedy would certainly have been submitted to the reader, 
without any farther introduction than what it had in the representation, but that its success has probably been founded 
on a circumstance which the author is informed has not before attended a theatrical trial, and which consequently 
ought not to pass unnoticed. 

I need scarcely add, that the circumstance alluded to was the withdrawing of the piece, to remove those imperfections 
in the first representation which were too obvious to escape reprehension, and too numerous to admit of a hasty 
correction. There are few writers, I believe, who, even in the fullest consciousness of error, do not wish to palliate the 
faults which they acknowledge ; and, however trifling the performance, to second their confession of its deficiencies, 
by whatever plea seems least disgraceful to their ability. In the present instance, it cannot be said to amount either to 
candour or modesty in me, to acknowledge an extreme inexperience and want of judgment on matters, in which, 
without guidance from practice, or spur from success, a young man should scarcely boast of being an adept. If it be 
said, that under such disadvantages no one should attempt to write a play, I must beg leave to dissent from the position, 
while the first point of experience that I have gained on the subject is, a knowledge of the candour and judgment with 
which an impartial public distinguishes between the errors of inexperience and incapacity, and the indulgence which it 
shows even to a disposition to remedy the defects of either. 

It were unnecessary to enter into any farther extenuation of what was thought exceptionable in this play, but that 
it has been said, that the managers should have prevented some of the defects before its appearance to the public— and 
in particular the uncommon length of the piece as represented the first night. It were an ill return for the most liberal 
and gentlemanly conduct on their side, to suffer any censure to rest where none was deserved. Hurry in writing has 
long been exploded as an excuse for an author ; — however, in the dramatic line, it may happen, that both an author 
and a manager may wish to fill a chasm in the entertainment of the public with a hastiness not altogether culpable. 
The season was advanced when I first put the play into Mr. Harris's hands : — it was at that time at least double the 
length of any acting comedy. I profited by his judgment and experience in the curtailing of it — till, I believe, his 
feeling for the vanity of a young author got the better of his desire for correctness, and he left many excrescences 
remaining, because he had assisted in pruning so many more. Hence, though I was not uninformed that the acts were 
still too long, I flattered myself that, after the first trial, I might with safer judgment proceed to remove what should 
appear to have been most dissatisfactory. Many other errors there were, which might in part have arisen from my 
being by no means conversant with plays in general, either in reading or at the theatre. Yet I own that, in one 
respect, I did not regret my ignorance : for as my first wish in attempting a play was to avoid every appearance of 
plagiary, I thought I should stand a better chance of effecting this from being in a walk which I had not frequented, 
and where, consequently, the progress of invention was less likely to be interrupted by starts of recollection : for on 
subjects on which the mind has been much informed, invention is slow of exerting itself. Faded ideas float in the fancy 
like half-forgotten dreams ; and the imagination in its fullest enjoyments becomes suspicious of its offspring, and doubts 
whether it has created or adopted. 

With regard to some particular passages which on the first night's representation seemed generally disliked, I confess, 
that if I felt any emotion of surpriso at the disapprobation, it was not that they were disapproved of, but that I had 
not before perceived that they deserved it. As some part of the attack on the piece was begun too early to pass for the 
sentence of judgment, which is ever tardy in condemning, it has been suggested to me, that much of the disapprobation 
must have arisen from virulence of malice, rather than severity of criticism : but as I was more apprehensive of there 
being just grounds to excite the latter than conscious of having deserved the former, I continue not to believe that 
probable, which I am sure must have been unprovoked. However, if it was so, and I could even mark the quarter from 
whence it came, it would be ungenerous to retort ; for no passion suffers more than malice from disappointment. For 
my own part, I see no reason why the author of a play should not regard a first night's audience as a candid and 
judicious friend attending, in behalf of the public, at his last rehearsal. If he can dispense with flattery, he is sure at 
least of sincerity, and even though the annotation be rude, he may rely upon the justness of the comment. Considered 
In this light, that audience, whose fiat is essential to the poet's claim, whether his object be fame or profit, has surely a 
right to expect some deference to its opinion, from principles of politeness at least, if not from gratitude. 

As for the little puny critics, who scatter their peevish strictures in private circles, and scribble at every author who 
has the eminence of being unconnected with them, as they are usually epleen-swoln from a vain idea of increasing their 

B 



THE RIVALS. 



consequence, there will always be found a petulance and illiberality in their remarks, which should place them as far 
beneath the notice of a gentleman, as their original dulness had sunk them from the level of the most unsuccessful 
author. 

It is not without pleasure that I catch at an opportunity of justifying myself from the charge of intending any national 
reflection in the character of Sir Lucius O'Trigger. If any gentlemen opposed the piece from that idea, I thank them 
sincerely for their opposition ; and if the condemnation of this comedy (however misconceived the provocation) could 
have added one spark to the decaying flame of national attachment to the country supposed to be reflected on, I should 
have been happy in its fate ; and might with truth have boasted, that it had done more real service in its failure, than 
the successful morality of a thousand stage-novels will ever effect. 

It is usual, I believe, to thank the performers in a new play, for the exertion of their several abilities. But where 
(as in this instance) their merit has been so striking and uncontroverted, as to call for the warmest and truest applause 
from a number of judicious audiences, the poet's after-praise comes like the feeble acclamation of a child to close the 
shouts of a multitude. The conduct, however, of the principals in a theatre cannot be so apparent to the public. I 
think it therefore but justice to declare, that from this theatre (the only one I can speak of from experience) those 
writers who wish to try the dramatic line will meet with that candour and liberal attention, which are generally allowed 
to be better calculated to lead genius into excellence, than either the precepts of judgment, or the guidance of 
experience. 

THE AUTHOR. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS, 

AS ORIGINALLY ACTED AT COVENT-GAROEN THEATRE IN 1775. 



Sir Anthony Absolute . Mr. Shuter. 

Captain Absolute . . . Mr. Woodward. 

Faulkland ...... Mr. Lewis, 

Acres Mr. Quick. 

Sir Lucius O'Trigger . . Mr. Lee. 

Pag Mr. Lee Lewes. 

David Mr. Dunstal. 



Thomas Mr. Fearon. 

Mrs. Malaprop .... Mrs. Green. 

Lydia Languish .... Miss Barsanti. 

Julia Mrs. Bulkley. 

Lucy Mrs. Lessingha 

Maid, Boy, Servants, &c. 



SCENE,— Bath. 

Time of Action — Five Hours. 



PROLOGUE, 
BY THE AUTHOR. 



SPOKEN BY MR. WOODWARD AND MR. QLJICKo 



Enter Serjeant-at-law, and Attorney following, and giving 
a paper. 

Serj. What's here ! — a vile cramp hand ! I 
cannot see 
Without my spectacles. 

Att. He means his fee. — 

Nay, Mr. Serjeant, good sir, try again. 

{Gives money. 
Serj. The scrawl improves ! [more] O come, 
'tis pretty plain. 
Hey ! how's this ? Dibble ! — sure it cannot be ! 
A poet's brief! a poet and a fee ! 

Att. Yes, sir ! though you without reward, I know, 
Would gladly plead the Muse's cause. 

Serj. So ! — so ! 

Att. And if the fee offends, your wrath should fall 
On me. 

Serj. Dear Dibble, no offence at all. 

Att. Some sons of Phoebus in the courts we 

meet, 
Serj. And fifty sons of Phoebus in the Fleet ! 
Att. Nor pleads he worse, who with a decent 
sprig 
Of bays adorns his legal waste of wig. 

Serj. Full-bottom'd heroes thus, on signs, 
unfurl 
A leaf of laurel in a grove of curl ! 
Yet tell your client, that, in adverse days, 
This wig is warmer than a bush of bays. 



Att. Do you, then, sir, my client's place supply, 
Profuse of robe, and prodigal of tie — 
Do you, with all those blushing powers of face, 
And wonted bashful hesitating grace, 
Rise in the court, and flourish on the case. [.Exit. 

Serj. For practice then suppose — this brief will 
show it, — v 

Me, serjeant Woodward, — counsel for the poet. 
Used to the ground, I know 'tis hard to deal 
With this dread court, from whence there's no 

appeal ; 
No tricking here, to blunt the edge of law, 
Or, damn'd in equity, escape by flaw : 
But judgment given, your sentence must remain; 
No writ of error lies— to Drury-lane ! 

Yet when so kind you seem, 'tis past dispute 
We gain some favour, if not costs of suit. 
No spleen is here ! I see no hoarded fury ; — 
I think I never faced a milder jury ! 
Sad else our plight ! where frowns are transportation, 
A hiss the gallows, and a groan damnation ! 
But such the public candour, without fear 
My client waives all right of challenge here. 
No newsman from our session is dismiss'd, 
Nor wit nor critic we scratch off the list ; 
His faults can never hurt another's ease, 
His crime, at worst, a bad attempt to please : 
Thus, all respecting, he appeals to all, 
And by the general voice will stand or fall. 



SCENE 



THE RIVALS. 



PROLOGUE, 

BY THE AUTHOR. 

SPOKEN ON THE TENTH NIGHT, BY MRS. BULKLEY. 



Granted our cause, our suit and trial o'er, 
The worthy serjeant need appear no more : 
In pleasing I a different client choose, 
He served the Poet, — I would serve the Muse : 
Like him, I'll try to merit your applause, 
A female counsel in a female's cause. 

Look on this form *, — where humour, quaint 
and sly, 
Dimples the cheek, and points the beaming eye ; 
Where gay invention seems to boast its wiles 
In amorous hint, and half-triumphant smiles ; 
While her light mask or covers satire's strokes, 
Or hides the conscious blush her wit provokes. 
Look on her well — does she seem form'd to teach ? 
Should you expect to hear this lady preach ? 
Is grey experience suited to her youth ? 
Do solemn sentiments become that mouth ! 
Bid her be grave, those lips should rebel prove 
To every theme that slanders mirth or love. 

Yet thus adorn'd with every graceful art 
To charm the fancy and yet reach the heart — 
Must we displace her ? And instead advance 
The goddess of the woful countenance — 

* Pointing to the figure of Comedy. 



The sentimental Muse ! — Her emblems view, 
The Pilgrim's Progress, and a sprig of rue ! 
View her — too chaste to look like flesh and blood — 
Primly portray'd on emblematic wood ! 
There fix'd in usurpation should she stand, 
She'll snatch the dagger from her sister's hand : 
And having made her votaries weep a flood, 
Good heaven ! she'll end her comedies in blood — 
Bid Harry Woodward break poor Dunstal's crown ! 
Imprison Quick, and knock Ned Shuter down ; 
While sad Barsanti, weeping o'er the scene, 
Shall stab herself — or poison Mrs. Green. — 

Such dire encroachments to prevent in time, 
Demands the critic's voice — the poet's rhyme. 
Can our light scenes add strength to holy laws ! 
Such puny patronage but hurts the cause : 
Fair virtue scorns our feeble aid to ask ; 
And moral truth disdains the trickster's mask. 
For here their favourite stands f , whose brow 

severe 
And sad, claims youth's respect, and pity's tear ; 
Who, when oppress'd by foes her worth creates, 
Can point a poniard at the guilt she hates. 

t Pointing to Tragedy. 



ACT I. 



Enter Thomas 



SCENE I.— A Street. 

he crosses the stage: 
looking after Mm. 



Fag follows, 



Fag. What ! Thomas !— sure 'tis he ?— What ! 
Thomas ! Thomas ! 

Thos. Hey ! — Odd's life ! Mr. Fag ! — give us 
your hand, my old fellow- servant. 

Fag. Excuse my glove, Thomas : — I'm devilish 
glad to see you, my lad. Why, my prince of cha- 
rioteers, you look as hearty ! — but who the deuse 
thought of seeing you in Bath ? 

Thos. Sure, master, madam Julia, Harry, Mrs. 
Kate, and the postilion, be all come, 

Fag. Indeed ! 

Thos. Ay, master thought another fit of the 
gout was coming to make him a visit ; — so he'd a 
mind to gi't the slip, and whip ! we were all off at 
an hour's warning. 

Fag. Ay, ay, hasty in everything, or it would 
not be sir Anthony Absolute ! 

Thos. But tell us, Mr. Fag, how does young 
master ? Odd, sir Anthony will stare to see the 
captain here ! 

Fag. I do not serve captain Absolute now. 

Thos. Why sure ! 

Fag. At present I am employed by ensign 
Beverley. 



Thos. I doubt, Mr. Fag, you ha'n't changed for 
the better. 

Fag. I have not changed, Thomas. 

Thos. No ! why didn't you say you had left 
young master ? 

Fag. No. — Well, honest Thomas, I must puzzle 
you no farther : — briefly then — captain Absolute 
and ensign Beverley are one and the same prison. 

Thos. The devil they are ! 

Fag. So it is indeed, Thomas ; and the ensign 
half of my master being on guard at present — the 
captain has nothing to do with me. 

Thos. So, so ! —what, this is some freak, I war- 
rant ! — Do tell us, Mr. Fag, the meaning o't — you 
know I ha' trusted you. 

Fag. You'll be secret, Thomas ? 

Thos. As a coach-horse. 

Fag. Why then the cause of all this is — Love, 
— Love, Thomas, who (as you may get read to you) 
has been a masquerader ever since the days of 
Jupiter. 

Thos. Ay, ay ; — I guessed there was a lady in 
the case : — but pray, why does your master pass 
only for ensign ? — now if he had shammed general 
indeed — 

Fag. Ah ! Thomas, there lies the mystery o't-he 
matter. Hark'ee, Thomas, my master is in love 
with a lady of a very singular taste : a lady who 
B 2 



THE RIVALS. 



ACT 



likes him better as a half-pay ensign than if she 
knew he was son and heir, to sir Anthony Absolute, 
a baronet of three thousand a year. 

Thos. That is an odd taste indeed ! — But has 
she got the stuff, Mr. Fag ? is she rich, hey ? 

Fag. Rich ! — why, I believe she owns half the 
stocks ! Zounds ! Thomas, she could pay the 
national debt as easily as I could my washerwo- 
man ! She has a lapdog that eats out of gold, — 
she feeds her parrot with small pearls, — and all her 
thread-papers are made of bank-notes ! 

Thos. Bravo, faith ! — Odd ! I warrant she has 
a set of thousands at least : — but does she draw 
kindly with the captain ? 

Fag. As fond as pigeons. 

Thos. May one hear her name ? 

Fag. Miss Lydia Languish. — But there is an 
old tough aunt in the way ; — though, by the by, 
she has never seen my master — for we got ac- 
quainted with miss while on a visit in Gloucester- 
shire. 

Thos. Well — I wish they were once harnessed 
together in matrimony. — But pray, Mr. Fag, what 
kind of a place is this Bath ? — I ha' heard a deal of 
it — here's a mort o'merry-making, hey ? 

Fag. Pretty well, Thomas, pretty well — 'tis a 
good lounge ; in the morning we go to the pump- 
room (though neither my master nor I drink the 
waters) ; after breakfast we saunter on the parades, 
or play a game at billiards ; at night we dance ; 
but damn the place, I'm tired of it : their regular 
hours stupify me — not a fiddle nor a card after 
eleven ! — However, Mr. Faulkland's gentleman 
and I keep it up a little in private parties ; — I'll in- 
troduce you there, Thomas — you'll like him much. 

Thos. Sure I know Mr. Du-Peigne — you know 
his master is to marry madam Julia. 

Fag. I had forgot. — But, Thomas, you must 
polish a little — indeed you must. — Here now — 
this wig ! — what the devil do you do with a wig, 
Thomas ? — none of the London whips of any 
degree of ton wear wigs now. 

Thos. More's the pity ! more's the pity ! I say. 
— Odd's life ! when I heard how the lawyers and 
doctors had took to their own hair, I thought how 
'twould go next : — odd rabbit it ! when the fashion 
had got foot on the bar, I guessed 'twould mount 
to the box ! — but 'tis all out of character, believe 
me, Mr. Fag : and look'ee, I'll never gi' up mine 
— the lawyers and doctors may do as they will. 

Fag. Well, Thomas, we'll not quarrel about that. 

Thos. Why, bless you, the gentlemen of the 
professions ben't all of a mind — for in our village 
now, thoff Jack Gauge the exciseman has ta'en to 
his carrots, there's little Dick the farrier swears 
he'll never forsake his bob, though all the college 
should appear with their own heads ! 

Fag. Indeed ! well said, Dick ! — But hold — 
mark ! mark ! Thomas. 

Thos. Zooks ! 'tis the captain. — Is that the 
lady with him ? 

Fag. No, no, that is madam Lucy — my master's 
mistress's maid. They lodge at that house — but I 
must after him to tell him the news. 

Thos. Odd ! he's giving her money ! — well, 
Mr. Fag— 

Fag. Good-bye, Thomas. I have an appoint- 
ment in Gyde's Porch this evening at eight ; meet 
me there, and we'll make a little party. 

o {Exeunt severally. 



SCENE II. — A Dressing-room in Mrs. 
Malaprop's Lodgings. 

Lydta sitting on a sofa, with a book in her hand. Lucy, as 
just returned from a message. 

Lucy. Indeed, ma'am, I traversed half the town 
in search of it : I don't believe there's a circulating 
library in Bath I ha'n't been at. 

Lyd. And could not you get The Reward of 
Constancy ? 

Lucy. No, indeed, ma'am. 

Lyd. Nor The Fatal Connexion $ 

Lucy. No, indeed, ma'am. 

Lyd. Nor The Mistakes of the Heart ? 

Lucy. Ma'am, as ill luck would have it, Mr. 
Bull said Miss Sukey Saunter had just fetched it 
away. 

Lyd. Heigh-ho ! — Did you inquire for The 
Delicate Distress? 

Lucy. Or, The Memoirs of Lady Woodford ? 
Yes, indeed, ma'am. I asked everywhere for it ; 
and I might have brought it from Mr. Frederick's, 
but lady Slattern Lounger, who had just sent it 
home, had so soiled and dog's-eared it, it wa'n't fit 
for a Christian to read. 

Lyd. Heigh-ho ! — Yes, I always know when 
lady Slattern has been before me. She has a most 
observing thumb ; and, I believe, cherishes her 
nails for the convenience of making marginal notes. 
— Well, child, what have you brought me ? 

Lucy. Oh! here, ma'am. — [Taking books from 
under her cloak, and from her pockets.} This is, 
The Gordian Knot, — and this Peregrine Pickle. 
Here are The Tears of Sensibility, and Humphrey 
Clinker. This is The Memoirs of a Lady of 
Quality, written by herself, and here the second 
volume of The Sentimental Journey. 

Lyd. Heigh-ho ! — What are those books by the 
glass ? 

Lucy. The great one is only The Whole Duty 
of Man, where I press a few blonds, ma'am. 

Lyd. Very well — give me the sal volatile. 

Lucy. Is it in a blue cover, ma'am ? 

Lyd. My smelling-bottle, you simpleton ! 

Lucy. Oh, the drops ! — here, ma'am. 

Lyd. Hold ! — here's some one coming — quick, 
see who it is — [Exit LucV.] Surely I heard my 
cousin Julia's voice ! 

Re-enter Lucy. 

Lucy. Lud ! ma'am, here is Miss Melville. 
Lyd. Is it possible ? [.Exit. 

Enter Julia. 

Lyd. My dearest Julia, how delighted am I ! 
— [Embrace.] How unexpected was this happi- 
ness ! 

Jul. True, Lydia — and our pleasure is the 
greater. — But what has been the matter? — you 
were denied to me at first ! 

Lyd. Ah, Julia, I have a thousand things to tell 
you ! — But first inform me what has conjured you 
to Bath? — is sir Anthony here ? 

Jul. He is — we are arrived within this hour — 
and I suppose he will be here to wait on Mrs. 
Malaprop as soon as he is dressed. 

Lyd. Then before we are interrupted, let me 
impart to you some of my distress ! — I know your 
gentle nature will sympathise with me, though 



SCENE li. 



THE RIVALS. 



your prudence may condemn me ! — My letters 
have informed you of my whole connexion with 
Beverley ;— but I have lost him, Julia ! — my aunt 
has discovered our intercourse by a note she inter- 
cepted, and has confined me ever since ! — Yet, 
would you believe it ? she has fallen absolutely in 
love with a tall Irish baronet she met one night 
since we have been here, at lady Macshuflie's 
rout. 

Jul. You jest, Lydia ! 

Lyd. No, upon my word. — She really carries 
on a kind of correspondence with him, under a 
feigned name though, till she chooses to be known 
to him ; — but it is a Delia or a Celia, I assure you. 

Jul. Then, surely, she is now more indulgent to 
her niece. 

Lyd. Quite the contrary. Since she has dis- 
covered her own frailty, she is become more sus- 
picious of mine. Then I must inform you of 
another plague! — That odious Acres is to be in 
Bath to-day ; so that I protest I shall be teased 
out of alf spirits ! 

Jul. Come, come, Lydia, hope for the best — 
sir Anthony shall use his interest with Mrs. 
Malaprop. 

Lyd. But you have not heard the worst. Unfor- 
tunately I had quarrelled with my poor Beverley, 
just before my aunt made the discovery, and I 
have not seen him since, to make it up. 

Jul. What was his offence ? 

Lyd. Nothing at all ! — But, I don't know how 
it was, as often as we had been together, we had 
never had a quarrel, and, somehow, I was afraid 
he would never give me an opportunity. So, last 
Thursday, I wrote a letter to myself, to inform 
myself that Beverley was at that time paying his 
addresses to another woman. I signed it your 
friend unknown, showed it to Beverley, charged 
him with his falsehood, put myself in a violent 
passion, and vowed I'd never see him more. 

Jul. And you let him depart so, and have not 
seen him since ? 

Lyd. 'Twas the next day my aunt found the 
matter out. I intended only to have teased him 
three days and a half, and now I've lost him for 
ever. 

Jul. If he is as deserving and sincere as you 
have represented him to me, he will never give 
you up so. Yet consider, Lydia, you tell me he 
is but an ensign, and you have thirty thousand 
pounds i 

Lyd. But you know I lose most of my fortune 
if I marry without my aunt's consent, till of age ; 
and that is what I have determined to do, ever 
since I knew the penalty. Nor could I love the 
man, who would wish to wait a day for the alter- 
native. 

Jul. Nay, this is caprice ! 

Lyd. What, does Julia tax me with caprice ? — 
I thought her lover Faulkland had inured her to it. 

Jul. I do not love even his faults. 

Lyd. But apropos — you have sent to him, 1 
suppose ? 

Jul. Not yet, upon my word — nor has he the 
least idea of my being in Bath. Sir Anthony's 
resolution was so sudden, I could not inform him 
of it. 

Lyd. Well, Julia, you are your own mistress, 
(though under the protection of sir Anthony), yet 
have you, for this long year, been a slave to the 



caprice, the whim, the jealousy of this ungrateful 
Faulkland, who will ever delay assuming the right 
of a husband, while you suffer Mm to be equally 
imperious as a lover. 

Jul. Nay, you are wrong entirely. We were 
contracted before my father's death. That, and 
some consequent embarrassments, have delayed 
what I know to be my Faulkland' s most ardent 
wish. He is too generous to trifle on such a 
point : — and for his character, you wrong him 
there too. No, Lydia, he is too proud, too noble 
to be jealous ; if he is captious, 'tis without dis- 
sembling ; if fretful, without rudeness. Unused 
to the fopperies of love, he is negligent of the little 
duties expected from a lover — but being unhack- 
neyed in the passion, his affection is ardent and 
sincere ; and as it engrosses his whole soul, he 
expects every thought and emotion of his mistress 
to move in unison with his. Yet, though his 
pride calls for this full return, his humility makes 
him undervalue those qualities in him which would 
entitle him to it ; and not feeling why he should be 
loved to the degree he wishes, he still suspects that 
he is not loved enough. This temper, I must own, 
has cost me many unhappy hours ; but I have 
learned to think myself his debtor, for those 
imperfections which arise from the ardour of his 
attachment. 

Lyd. Well, I cannot blame you for defending 
him. But tell me candidly, Julia, had he never 
saved your life, do you think you should have been 
attached to him as you are ? — Believe me, the rude 
blast that overset your boat was a prosperous gale 
of love to him. 

Jul. Gratitude may have strengthened my 
attachment to Mr. Faulkland, but I loved him 
before he had preserved me ; yet surely that alone 
were an obligation sufficient. 

Lyd. Obligation ! why a water- spaniel would 
have done as much ! — Well, I should never think 
of giving my heart to a man because he could swim. 

Jul. Come, Lydia, you are too inconsiderate. 

Lyd. Nay, I do but jest. — What's here ? 

Re-enter Lucy in a hurry 

Lucy. O ma'am, here is sir Anthony Absolute 
just come home with your aunt. 

Lyd. They'll not come here. — Lucy, do you 
watch. [Exit Lucv - 

Jul. Yet I must go. Sir Anthony does not 
know I am here, and if we meet, he'll detain me, 
to show me the town. I'll take another opportunity 
of paying my respects to Mrs. Malaprop, when she 
shall treat me, as long as she chooses, with her 
select words so ingeniously misapplied, without 
being mispronounced. 

Re-enter Lucy. 

Lucy. O Lud ! ma'am, they are both coming up 
stairs. 

Lyd. Well, I'll not detain you,coz. — Adieu, my 
dear Julia, I'm sure you are in haste to send to 
Faulkland. — There — through my room you'll find 
another staircase. 

Jul. Adieu ! [Embraces Lydia, and exit. 

Lyd. Here, my dear Lucy, hide these books. 
Quick, quick. — Fling Peregrine Pickle under the 
toilet — throw Roderick Random into the closet — 
put The Innocent Adultery into The Whole Ditty 
of Man — thrust Lord Aimworth under the sofa — 







THE RIVALS. 



cram Ovid behind the bolster — there— put The 
Man of Feeling into your pocket — so, so — now lay 
Mrs. Chapone in sight, and leave Fordyce's Ser- 
mons open on the table. 

Lucy. O burn it, ma'am ! the hair-dresser has 
torn away as far as Proper Pride. 

Lyd. Never mind — open at Sobriety. — Fling me 
Lord Chesterfield'' s Letters. — Now for 'em. 

{Exit Lucy. 

Enter Mrs. Malaprop, and Sir Anthony Absolute. 

Mrs. Mai. There, sir Anthony, there sits the 
deliberate simpleton who wants to disgrace her 
family, and lavish herself on a fellow not worth a 
shilling. 

Lyd. Madam, I thought you once — 

Mrs. Mai. You thought, miss ! I don't know 
any business you have to think at all — thought does 
not become a young woman. But the point we 
would request of you is, that you will promise to 
forget this fellow — to illiterate him, I say, quite 
from your memory. 

Lyd. Ah, madam ! our memories are independent 
of our wills. It is not so easy to forget. 

Mrs. Mai. But I say it is, miss ; there is nothing 
on earth so easy as to forget, if a person chooses to 
set about it. I'm sure I have as much forgot your 
poor dear uncle as if he had never existed — and I 
thought it my duty so to do ; and let me tell you, 
Lydia, these violent memories don't become a young 
woman. 

Sir Anih. Why sure she won't pretend to re- 
member what she's ordered not ! — ay, this comes 
of her reading ! 

Lyd. What crime, madam, have I committed to 
be treated thus ? 

Mrs. Mai. Now don't attempt to extirpate your- 
self from the matter ; you know I have proof 

controvertible of it But tell me, will you promise 

to do as you're bid ? Will you take a husband of 
your friends' choosing ? 

Lyd. Madam, I must tell you plainly that had 
I no preference for any one else, the choice you 
have made would be my aversion. 

Mrs. Mai. What business have you, miss, with 
preference and aversion ? They don't become a 
young woman ; and you ought to know, that as 
both always wear off, 'tis safest in matrimony to 
begin with a little aversion. I am sure I hated your 
poor dear uncle before marriage as if he'd been a 
blackamoor — and yet, miss, you are sensible what 
a wife I made ! — and when it pleased Heaven to 
release me from him, 'tis unknown what tears I 
shed ! — But suppose we were going to give you 
another choice, will you promise us to give up this 
Beverley ? 

Lyd. Could I belie my thoughts so far as to give 
that promise, my actions would certainly as far 
belie my words. 

Mrs. Mai. Take yourself to your room. — You 
are fit company for nothing but your own ill- 
humours. 

Lyd. Willingly, ma'am — I cannot change for the 
worse. [Exit. 

Mrs. Mai. There's a little intricate hussy for you ! 
Sir Anth. It is not to be wondered at, ma'am, 
— all this is the natural consequence of teaching 
girls to read. Had I a thousand daughters, by 
Heaven ! I'd as soon have them taught the black 
art as their alphabet ! 



Mrs. Mai. Nay, nay, sir Anthony, you are an 
absolute misanthropy. 

Sir Anth. In my way hither, Mrs. Malaprop, 
I observed your niece's maid coming forth from a 
circulating library ! — She had a book in each hand 
— they were half-bound volumes, with marble 
covers ! — From that moment I guessed how full of 
duty I should see her mistress ! 

Mrs. Mai. Those are vile places, indeed ! 
Sir Anth. Madam, a circulating library in a 
town is, as an evergreen tree of diabolical knowledge! 
It blossoms through the year ! — And depend on it, 
Mrs. Malaprop, that they who are so fond of 
handling the leaves, will long for the fruit at last. 

Mrs. Mai. Fy, fy, sir Anthony ! you surely 
speak laconically. 

Sir Anth. Why, Mrs. Malaprop, in moderation 
now, what would you have a woman know ? 

Mrs. Mai. Observe me, sir Anthony. — I would 
by no means wish a daughter of mine to be a pro- 
geny of learning ; I don't think so much learning 
becomes a young woman ; for instance, I would 
never let her meddle with Greek, or Hebrew, or 
algebra, or simony, or fluxions, or paradoxes, or 
such inflammatory branches of learning — neither 
would it be necessary for her to handle any of your 
mathematical, astronomical, diabolical instruments. 
— But, sir Anthony, I would send her, at nine 
years old, to a boarding-school, in order to learn a 
little ingenuity and artifice. Then, sir, she should 
have a supercilious knowledge in accounts ; — and as 
she grew up, I would have her instructed in geo- 
metry, that she might know something of the 
contagious countries ;— but above all, sir Anthony, 
she should be mistress of orthodoxy, that she might 
not mis-spell, and mis-pronounce words so shame- 
fully as girls usually do ; and likewise that she 
might reprehend the true meaning of what she is 
saying. This, sir Anthony, is what I would have 
a woman know ; — and I don't think there is a 
superstitious article in it. 

Sir Anth. Well, well, Mrs. Malaprop, I will 
dispute the point no further with you ; though I 
must confess, that you are a truly moderate and 
polite arguer, for almost every third word you say 
is on my side of the question. But, Mrs. Malaprop, 
to the more important point in debate, — you say 
you have no objection to v my proposal ? 

Mrs. Mai. None, I assure you. I am under no 
positive engagement with Mr. Acres, and as Lydia 
is so obstinate against him, perhaps your son may 
have better success. 

Sir Anth. Well, madam, I will write for the boy 
directly. He knows not a syllable of this yet, 
though I have for some time had the proposal in 
my head. He is at present with his regiment. 

Mrs. Mai. We have never seen your son, sir 
Anthony ; but I hope no objection on his side. 

Sir Anth. Objection ! — let him object if he dare I 
— No, no, Mrs. Malaprop, Jack knows that the 
least demur puts me in a frenzy directly. My pro- 
cess was always very simple — in their younger days, 
'twas ' Jack, do this ;' — if he demurred, I knocked 
him down — and if he grumbled at that, I always 
sent him out of the room. 

Mrs. Mai. Ay, and the properest way, o'my 
conscience ! — nothing is so conciliating to young 
people as severity.— Well, sir Anthony, I shall give 
Mr. Acres his discharge, and prepare Lydia to 
receive your son's invocations ; — and I hope you 



SCENE 



THE RIVALS. 



will represent her to the captain as an object not 
altogether illegible. 

Sir Anth. Madam, I will handle the subject 
prudently. — Well, I must leave you ; and let me 
beg you, Mrs. Malaprop, to enforce this matter 
roundly to tbe girl. — Take my advice — keep a tight 
hand : if she rejects this proposal, clap her under 
lock and key ; and if you were just to let the 
servants forget to bring her dinner for three or four 
days, you can't conceive how she'd come about. 

[Exit. 

Mrs. Mai. Well, at any rate I shall be glad to 
get her from under my intuition. She has some- 
how discovered my partiality for sir Lucius 
O'Trigger — sure, Lucy can't have betrayed me ! — 
No, the girl is such a simpleton, I should have 
made her confess it. — Lucy ! — Lucy ! — [Calls.] 
Had she been one of your artificial ones, I should 
never have trusted her. 

Re-enter Lucy. 

Lucy. Did you call, ma'am ? 

Mrs. Mai. Yes, girl. — Did you see sir Lucius 
while you was out ? 

Lucy. No, indeed, ma'am, not a glimpse of 
him. 

Mrs. Mai. You are sure, Lucy, that you never 
mentioned-— 

Lucy. Oh gemini ! I'd sooner cut my tongue 
out. 

Mrs. Mai. Well, don't let your simplicity be 
imposed on. 

Lucy. No, ma'am. 

Mrs. Mai. So, come to me presently, and I'll 



give you another letter to sir Lucius ; but mind, 
Lucy — if ever you betray what you are entrusted 
with (unless it be other people's secrets to me), 
you forfeit my malevolence for ever ; and your 
being a simpleton shall be no excuse for your 
locality. [Exit. 

Lucy. Ha ! ha ! ha ! — So, my dear Simplicity, 
let me give you a little respite. — [Altering her 
manner] Let girls in my station be as fond as they 
please of appearing expert, and knowing in their 
trusts ; commend me to a mask of silliness, and 
a pair of sharp eyes for my own interest under it ! 
— Let me see to what account have I turned my 
simplicity lately. — [Looks at a paper.] For abet- 
ting Miss Lydia Languish in a design of running 
away with an ensign 1 — in money, sundry times, 
twelve pound twelve ; gowns, five ; hats, ruffles, 
caps, fyc. fyc. numberless ! — From the said ensign, 
within this last month, six guineas and a half. — 
About a quarter's pay ! — Item, from Mrs. Mal- 
aprop, for betraying the young people to her — 
when 1 found matters were likely to be discovered 
— two guineas, and a black paduasoy. — Item, 
from Mr. Acres, for carrying divers letters — 
which I never delivered — two guineas, and a pair 
of buckles.— ^iteva, from Sir Lucius O' Trigger, 
three crowns, two gold pocket-pieces, and a silver 
snuffbox! — Well done, Simplicity! — Yet I was 
forced to make my Hibernian believe, that he was 
corresponding, not with the aunt, but with the 
niece : for though not over rich, I found he had 
too much pride and delicacy to sacrifice the feelings 
of a gentleman to the necessities of his fortune. 

[Exit. 



ACT II. 



SCENE I. — Captain Absolute's Lodgings. 
Captain Absolute and Fag. 

Fag. Sir, while I was there sir Anthony came 
in : I told him, you had sent me to inquire after 
his health, and to know if he was at leisure to see 
you. 

A bs. And what did he sav, on hearing I was at 
Bath ? 

Fag. Sir, in my life I never saw an elderly 
gentleman more astonished ! He started back two 
or three paces, rapped out a dozen interjectural 
oaths, and asked, what the devil had brought you 
here. 

Abs. Well, sir, and what did you say ? 

Fag. Oh, I lied, sir — I forget the precise lie ; 
but you may depend on't, he got no truth from me. 
Yet, with submission, for fear of blunders in future, 
I should be glad to fix what has brought us to 
Bath ; in order that we may lie a little consistently. 
— Sir Anthony's servants were curious, sir, very 
curious indeed. 

Abs. You have said nothing to them ? 

Fag. Oh, not a word, sir, — not a word ! Mr. 
Thomas, indeed, the coachman (whom I take to be 
the discreetest of whips) — 

Abs. 'Sdeath !— you rascal ! you have not trusted 
him ! 



Fag. Oh, no, sir — no — no — not a syllable, upon 
my veracity ! — He was, indeed, a little inquisitive ; 
but I was sly, sir — devilish sly ! My master, (said 
I) honest Thomas, (you know, sir, one says honest 
to one's inferiors), is come to Bath to recruit — 
Yes, sir, I said to recruit — and whether for men, 
money, or constitution, you know, sir, is nothing 
to him, nor any one else. 

Abs. Well, recruit will do — let it be so. 

Fag. Oh, sir, recruit will do surprisingly — 
indeed, to give the thing an air, I told Thomas, 
that your honour had already enlisted five dis- 
banded chairmen, seven minority waiters, aniL 
thirteen billiard-markers. 

Abs. You blockhead, never say more than is 
necessary. 

Fag. I beg pardon, sir — I beg pardon — but, 
with submission, a lie is nothing unless one supports 
it. Sir, whenever I draw on my invention for a 
good current lie, I always forge indorsements as 
well as the bill. 

Abs. Well, take care you don't hurt your credit, 
by offering too much security. — Is Mr. Faulkland 
returned ? 

Fag. He is above, sir, changing his dress. 

Abs. Can you tell whether he has been informed 
of sir Anthony's and Miss Melville's arrival ? 

Fag. I fancy not, sir ; he has seen no one since 



8 



THE RIVALS. 



he came in but his gentleman, who was with him at 
Bristol. — I think, sir, I hear Mr. Faulkland coming 
down — 

Abs. Go, tell him, I am here. 

Fag. Yes, sir.— [Going] I beg pardon, sir, but 
should sir Anthony call, you will do me the favour 
to remember that we are recruiting, if you please. 

Abs. Well, well. 

Fag. And, in tenderness to my character, if your 
honour could bring in the chairmen and waiters, I 
should esteem it as an obligation ; for though I 
never scruple a lie to serve my master, yet it hurts 
one's conscience to be found out. [Exit. 

Abs. Now for my whimsical friend — if he does 
not know that his mistress is here, I'll tease him a 
little before I tell him— 

Enter Faulkland. 

Faulkland, you're welcome to Bath again ; you are 
punctual in your return. 

Faulk. Yes ; I had nothing to detain me, when 
I had finished the business I went on. Well, what 
news since I left you ? how stand matters between 
you and Lydia ? 

Abs. Faith, much as they were ; I have not seen 
her since our quarrel; however, I expect to be 
recalled every hour. 

Faulk. Why don't you persuade her to go oiF 
with you at once ? 

Abs. What, and lose two-thirds of her fortune? 
you forget that, my friend. — No, no, I could have 
brought her to that long ago. 

Faulk. Nay then, you trifle too long — if you are 
sure of her, propose to the aunt in your own cha- 
racter, and write to sir Anthony for his consent. 

Abs. Softly, softly ; for though I am convinced 
my little Lydia would elope with me as ensign 
Beverley, yet am I by no means certain that she 
would take me with the impediment of our friends' 
consent, a regular humdrum wedding, and the re- 
version of a good fortune on my side : no, no ; I 
must prepare her gradually for the discovery, and 
make myself necessary to her, before I risk it. — 
Well, but Faulkland, you'll dine with us to-day at 
the hotel ? 

Faulk. Indeed I cannot ; I am not in spirits to 
be of such a party. 

Abs. By heavens ! I shall forswear your com- 
pany. You are the most teasing, captious, incor- 
rigible lover ! — Do love like a man. 

Faulk. I own I am unfit for company. 

Abs. Am not I a lover ; ay, and a romantic one 

too ? Yet do T carry everywhere with me such a 

confounded farrago of doubts, fears, hopes, wishes, 

and all the flimsy furniture of a country miss's 

Jjbrain ! 

Faulk. Ah ! Jack, your heart and soul are not, 
like mine, fixed immutably on one only object. 
You throw for a large stake, but losing, you could 
stake and throw again : — but I have set my sum 
of happiness on this cast, and not to succeed, were 
to be stripped of all. 

Abs. But, for Heaven's sake ! what grounds for 
apprehension can your whimsical brain conjure up 
at present ? 

Faulk. What grounds for apprehension, did you 
say ? Heavens ! are there not a thousand ! I fear 
for her spirits — her health— her life. — My absence 
may fret her; her anxiety for my return, her fears 
for me may oppress her gentle temper : and for 



her health, does not every hour bring me cause to 
be alarmed ? If it rains, some shower may even 
then have chilled her delicate frame 1 If the wind 
be keen, some rude blast may have affected her ! 
The heat of noon, the dews of the evening, may 
endanger the life of her, for whom only I value 
mine. O Jack ! when delicate and feeling souls 
are separated, there is not a feature in the sky, not 
a movement of the elements, not an aspiration of 
the breeze, but hints some cause for a lover's 
apprehension ! 

Abs. Ay, but we may choose whether we will 
take the hint or not. — So, then, Faulkland, if you 
were convinced that Julia were well and in spirits, 
you would be entirely content ? 

Faulk. I should be happy beyond measure — I 
am anxious only for that. 

Abs. Then to cure your anxiety at once — Miss 
Melville is in perfect health, and is at this moment 
in Bath. 

Faulk. Nay, Jack — don't trifle with me. 

Abs. She is arrived here with my father within 
this hour. 

Faulk. Can you be serious ? 

Abs. I thought you knew sir Anthony better 
than to be surprised at a sudden whim of this kind. 
— Seriously then, it is as I tell you — upon my 
honour. 

Faulk. My dear friend ! — Hollo, Du Peigne ! 
my hat. — My dear Jack — now nothing on earth can 
give me a moment's uneasiness. 
Re-enter Fag. 

Fag. Sir, Mr. Acres, just arrived, is below. 

Abs. Stay, Faulkland, this Acres lives within a 
mile of sir Anthony, and he shall tell you how 
your mistress has been ever since you left her. — 
Fag, show the gentleman up. [Exit Fag. 

Faulk. What, is he much acquainted in the 
family ? 

Abs. Oh, very intimate : I insist on your not 
going : besides, his character will divert you. 

Faulk. Well, I should like to ask him a few 
questions. 

Abs. He is likewise a rival of mine — that is, of 
my other self's, for he does not think his friend 
captain Absolute ever saw the lady in question ; 
and it is ridiculous enough to hear him complain 
to me of one Beverley, a concealed skulking rival, 
who — 

Faulk. Hush ! — he's here. 

Enter Acres. 

Acres. Ha ! my dear friend, noble captain, and 
honest Jack, how dost thou ? just arrived, faith, as 
you see. — Sir, your humble servant. — Warm work 
on the roads, Jack ! — Odds whips and wheels ! I've 
travelled like a comet, with a tail of dust all the 
way as long as the Mall. 

Abs. Ah! Bob, you are indeed an eccentric 
planet, but we know your attraction hither. — Give 
me leave to introduce Mr. Faulkland to you ; Mr. 
Faulkland, Mr. Acres. 

Acres. Sir, I am most heartily glad to see you : 
sir, I solicit your connexions. — Hey, Jack — what, 
this is Mr. Faulkland, who — 

Abs. Ay, Bob, Miss Melville's Mr. Faulkland. 

Acres. Odso ! she and your father can be but 
just arrived before me : — I suppose you have seen 
them. Ah ! Mr. Faulkland, you are indeed a 
happy man. 



THE RIVALS 



Faulk. I have not seen Miss Melville, yet, sir ; 
— I hope she enjoyed full health and spirits in 
Devonshire ? 

Acres. Never knew her better in my life, sir, — 
never better. Odds blushes and blooms ! she has 
been as healthy as the German Spa. 

Faulk. Indeed ! — I did hear that she had been 
a little indisposed. 

Acres. False, false, sir — only said to vex you : 
quite the reverse, I assure you. 

Faulk. There, Jack, you see she has the advan- 
tage of me ; I had almost fretted myself ill. 

Abs. Now are you angry with your mistress for 
not having been sick ? 

Faulk. No, no, you misunderstand me : — yet 
surely a little trifling indisposition is not an unna- 
tural consequence of absence from those we love. — 
Now confess — isn't there something unkind in this 
violent, robust, unfeeling health ? 

Abs. Oh, it was very unkind of her to be well 
in your absence, to be sure ! 

Acres. Good apartments, Jack. 

Faulk. Well, sir, but you was saying that Miss 
Melville has been so exceedingly well — what then 
she has been merry and gay, I suppose ? — Always 
in spirits — hey ? 

Acres. Merry, odds crickets ! she has been the 
bell and spirit of the company wherever she has 
been — so lively and entertaining ! so full of wit 
and humour ! 

Faulk. There, Jack, there. — Oh, by my soul ! 
there is an innate levity in woman, that nothing 
can overcome. — What ! happy, and I away 1 

Abs. Have done. — How foolish this is ! just 
now you were only apprehensive for your mistress' 
spirits. 

Faulk. Why, Jack, have I been the joy and 
spirit of the company ? 

Abs. No indeed, you have not. 

Faulk. Have I been lively and entertaining ? 

Abs. Oh, upon my word, I acquit you. 

Faulk. Have I been full of wit and humour ? 

Abs. No, faith, to do you justice, you have been 
confoundedly stupid indeed. 

Acres. What's the matter with the gentleman ? 

Abs. He is only expressing his great satisfaction 
at hearing that Julia has been so well and happy — 
that's all— hey, Faulkland ? 

Faulk. Oh ! I am rejoiced to hear it — yes, yes, 
she has a happy disposition ! 

Acres. That she has indeed — then she is so 
accomplished — so sweet a voice — so expert at her 
harpsichord — such a mistress of fiat and sharp, 
squallante, rumblante, and quiverante ! — There 
was this time month — odds minims and crotchets ! 
how she did chirrup at Mrs. Piano's concert ! 

Faulk. There again, what say you to this ? you 
see she has been all mirth and song — not a thought 
of me ! 

Abs. Pho ! man, is not music the food of 
love? 

Faulk. Well, well, it may be so.— Pray, Mr. 
, what's his damned name ? — Do you remem- 
ber what songs Miss Melville sung ? 

Acres. Not I indeed. 

Abs. Stay now, they were some pretty melan- 
choly purling-stream airs, I warrant ; perhaps 
you may recollect ;— did she sing, When absent 
from my soul's delight 9 

Acres. No, that wa'n't it. 



Abs. Or, Go, gentle gales ! — Go, gentle gales ! 

[Sings. 

Acres. Oh, no ! nothing like it. Odds ! now I 
recollect one of them — My heart's my own, my 
will is free. [Sings. 

Faulk. Fool ! fool that I am ! to fix all my 
happiness on such a trifler ! 'Sdeath ! to make 
herself the pipe and ballad-monger of a circle ! to 
soothe her light heart with catches and glees ! — 
What can you say to this, sir ? 

Abs. Why, that I should be glad to hear my 
mistress had been so merry, sir. 

Faulk. Nay, nay, nay — I'm not sorry that she 
has been happy — no, no, I am glad of that — I 
would not have had her sad or sick — yet surely a 
sympathetic heart would have shown itself even in 
the choice of a song — she might have been tem- 
perately healthy, and somehow, plaintively gay ; — 
but she has been dancing too, I doubt not ! 

Acres. What does the gentleman say about 
dancing ? 

Abs. He says the lady we speak of dances as 
well as she sings. 

Acres. Ay, truly, does she — there was at our 
last race ball — 

Faulk. Hell and the devil ! There ! there— I 
told you so ! I told you so ! Oh ! she thrives in 
my absence ! — Dancing ! but her whole feelings 
have been in opposition with mine ; — I have been 
anxious, silent, pensive, sedentary — my days have 
been hours of care, my nights of watchfulness. — ■ 
She has been all health ! spirit ! laugh ! song ! 
dance ! — Oh ! damned, damned levity ! 

Abs. For Heaven's sake, Faulkland, don't 
expose yourself so ! — Suppose she has danced, 
what then ? — does not the ceremony of society 
often oblige — 

Faulk. Well, well, I'll contain myself— perhaps 

as you say — for form sake What, Mr. Acres, 

you were praising Miss Melville's manner of danc- 
ing a* minuet — hey ? 

Acres. Oh, I dare insure her for that — but what 
1 was going to speak of was her country-dancing. 
Odds swimmings ! she has such an air with her ! 

Faulk. Now disappointment on her ! — Defend 
this, Absolute ; why don't you defend this ? — 
Country-dances ! jigs and reels ! am I to blame 
now ? A minuet I could have forgiven — I should 
not have minded that — I say I should not have 
regarded a minuet — but country-dances ! — Zounds ! 

had she made one in a cotillon 1 believe 1 

could have forgiven even that — but to be monkey- 
led for a night ! — to ran the gauntlet through a 
string of amorous palming puppies ! — to show 
paces like a managed filly !— Oh, Jack, there never 
can be but one man in the world whom a truly 
modest and delicate woman ought to pair with in 
a country-dance ; and, even then, the rest of the 
couples should be her great-uncles and aunts ! 

Abs. Ay, to be sure ! — grandfathers and grand- 
mothers ! 

Faulk. If there be but one vicious mind in the 
set, 'twill spread like a contagion — the' action of 
their pulse beats to the lascivious movement of the 
jig — their quivering, warm-breathed sighs impreg- 
nate the very air — the atmosphere becomes electri- 
cal to love, and eac K .amorous spark darts through 
every link of the ch. .A ! — I must leave you — I own 
I am somewhat flurried — and that confounded 
looDy has perceived it. [Going. 



JO 



THE RIVALS. 



Abs. Nay, but stay, Faulkland, and thank Mr. 
Acres for his good news. 

Faulk. Damn his news ! {.Exit. 

Abs. Ha ! ha! ha ! poor Faulkland five minutes 
since — nothing on earth could give him a moment's 
uneasiness ! 

Acres. The gentleman wa'n't angry at my 
praising his mistress, was he ? 

Abs. A little jealous, I believe, Bob. 

Acres. You don't say so ? Ha ! ha ! jealous of 
me — that's a good joke. 

Abs. There's nothing strange in that, Bob ; let 
me tell you, that sprightly grace and insinuating 
manner of yours will do some mischief among the 
girls here. 

Acres. Ah ! you joke — ha ! ha ! mischief — ha ! 
ha ! but you know I am not my own property, my 
dear Lydia has forestalled me. She could ne^er 
abide me in the country, because I used to dress 
so badly — but odds frogs and tambours ! I sha'n't 
take matters so here, now ancient madam has no 
voice in it : I'll make my old clothes know who's 
master. I shall straightway cashier the hunting- 
frock, and render my leather breeches incapable. 
My hair has been in training some time. 

Abs. Indeed ! 

Acres. Ay — and tho'ff the side curls are a little 
restive, my hind-part takes it very kindly. 

Abs. Oh, you'll polish, I doubt not. 

Acres. Absolutely I propose so — then if I can 
find out this ensign Beverley, odds triggers and 
flints ! I'll make him know the difference o't. 

Abs. Spoke like a man ! But pray, Bob, I 
observe you have got an odd kind of a new method 
of swearing— 

Acres. Ha 1 ha ! you've taken notice of it — 'tis 
genteel, isn't it ? — I did not invent it myself though ; 
but a commander in our militia, a great scholar, I 
assure you, says that there is no meaning in the 
common oaths, and that nothing but their anti- 
quity makes them respectable ; — because, he says, 
the ancients would never stick to an oath or two, 
but would say, by Jove ! or by Bacchus ! or by 
Mars ! or by Venus ! or by Pallas ! according to 
the sentiment : so that to swear with propriety, 
says my little major, the oath should be an echo 
to the sense ; and this we call the oath referential, 
or sentimental swearing — ha ! ha ! ha ! 'tis genteel, 
isn't it ? 

Abs. Very genteel, and very new, indeed ! — and 
I dare say will supplant all other figures of impre- 
cation. 

Acres. Ay, ay, the best terms will grow obso- 
lete.— Damns have had their day. 

Re-enter Fag. 

Fag. Sir, there is a gentleman below desires to 
see you. Shall I show him into the parlour ? 

Abs. Ay — you may. 

Acres. Well, I must be gone — 

Abs. Stay ; who is it, Fag ? 

Fag. Your father, sir. 

Abs. You puppy, why didn't you show him up 
directly ? [Exit Fag. 

Acres. You have business with sir Anthony. — 
I expect a message from Mrs. Malaprop at my 
lodgings. I have sent also to my dear friend sir 
Lucius O'Trigger. Adieu, Jack ! we must meet at 
night, when you shall give me a dozen bumpers to 
little Lydia. 



Abs. That I will with all my heart.— [Exit 
Acres.] Now for a parental lecture — I hope he 
has heard nothing of the business that has brought 
me here — I wish the gout had held him fast in 
Devonshire, with all my soul ! 

Enter Sir Anthony Absolute 

Sir, I am delighted to see you here ; and looking 
so well ! your sudden arrival at Bath made me ap- 
prehensive for your health. 

Sir Anth. Very apprehensive, I dare say, Jack. 
— What, you are recruiting here, hey ? 

Abs. Yes, sir, I am on duty. 

Sir Anth. Well, Jack, I am glad to see you, 
though I did not expect it, for I was going to write 
to you on a little matter of business. — Jack, I have 
been considering that I grow old and infirm, and 
shall probably not trouble you long. 

Abs. Pardon me, sir, I never saw you look 
more strong and hearty ; and I pray frequently 
that you may continue so. 

Sir Anth. I hope your prayers may be heard, 
with all my heart. Well then, Jack, I have been 
considering that I am so strong and hearty I may 
continue to plague you a long time. — Now, Jack, 
I am sensible that the income of your commission, 
and what I have hitherto allowed you, is but a 
small pittance for a lad of your spirit. 

Abs. Sir, you are very good. 

Sir Anth. And it is my wish, while yet I live, 
to have my boy make some figure in the world. I 
have resolved, therefore, to fix you at once in a 
noble independence. 

Abs. Sir, your kindness overpowers me — such 
generosity makes the gratitude of reason more 
lively than the sensations even of filial affection. 

Sir Anth. I am glad you are so sensible of my 
attention — and you shall be master of a large 
estate in a few weeks. 

Abs. Let my future life, sir, speak my gratitude; 
I cannot express the sense I have of your munifi- 
cence. — Yet, sir, I presume you would not wish 
me to quit the army ? 

Sir Anth. Oh, that shall be as your wife chooses. 

Abs. My wife, sir ! 

Sir Anth. Ay, ay, settle that between you — 
settle that between you. 

Abs. A wife, sir, did you say ? 

Sir Anth. Ay, a wife — why, did not I mention 
her before ? 

Abs. Not a word of her, sir. 

Sir Anth. Odd so ! — I mustn't forget her 
though. — Yes, Jack, the independence I was talk- 
ing of is by marriage — the fortune is saddled with 
a wife — but I suppose that makes no difference. 

Abs. Sir! sir! — you amaze me ! 

Sir Anth. Why, what the devil's the matter 
with the fool ? Just now you were all gratitude 
and duty. 

Abs. I was, sir, — you talked to me of independ- 
ence and a fortune, but not a word of a wife. 

Sir Anth. Why — what difference does that 
make ? Odds life, sir ! if you have the estate, you 
must take it with the live stock on it, as it stands. 

Abs. If my happiness is to be the price, I must 
beg leave to decline the purchase. — Pray, sir, who 
is the lady ? 

Sir Anth. What's that to you, sir ?— Come, 
give me your promise to love, and to marry her 
directly. 



SCENE II. 



THE RIVALS. 



11 



Abs. Sure, sir, this is not very reasonable, to 
summon my affections for a lady I know nothing 
of! 

Sir Anth. I am sure, sir, 'tis more unreasonable 
in you to object to a lady you know nothing of. 

Abs. Then, sir, I must tell you plainly, that my 
inclinations are fixed on another — my heart is en- 
gaged to an angel. 

Sir Auth. Then pray let it send an excuse. — It 
is very sorry — but business prevents its waiting on 
her. 

Abs. But my vows are pledged to her. 

Sir Anth. Let her foreclose, Jack ; let her fore- 
close ; they are not worth redeeming ; besides, you 
have the angel's vows in exchange, I suppose ; so 
there can be no loss there. 

Abs. You must excuse me, sir, if I tell you, once 
for all, that in this point I cannot obey you. 

Sir Anth. Hark'ee, Jack ; — I have heard you for 
some time with patience — I have been cool — quite 
cool ; but take care — you know I am compliance 
itself — when I am not thwarted ; — no one more 
easily led — when I have my own way ; — but don't 
put me in a frenzy. 

Abs. Sir, I must repeat it — in this I cannot 
obey you. 

Sir Anth. Now damn me! if ever I call you Jack 
again while T live ! 

Abs. Nay, sir, but hear me. 

Sir Anth. Sir, T won't hear a word — not a 
word ! not one word ! so give me your promise by 
a nod — and I'll tell you what, Jack — I mean, you 
dog — if you don't, by — 

Abs. What, sir, promise to link myself to some 
mass of ugliness ! to — 

Sir Anth. Zounds ! sirrah ! the lady shall be as 
ugly as I choose : she shall have a hump on each 
shoulder ; she shall be as crooked as the Crescent ; 
her one eye shall roll like the bull's in Cox's 
Museum ; she shall have a skin like a mummy, 
and the beard of a Jew — she shall be all this, sir- 
rah ! — yet I will make you ogle her all day, and 
sit up all night to write sonnets on her beauty. 

A os. This is reason and moderation indeed ! 

Sir Anth. None of your sneering, puppy ! no 
grinning, jackanapes ! 

Indeed, sir, I never was in a worse humour 
for mirth in my life. 

Sir Anth. 'Tis false, sir, I know you are laugh- 
ing in your sleeve ; I know you'll grin when I am 
gone, sirrah ! 

Abs. Sir, I hope I know my duty better. 

Sir Anth. None of your passion, sir ! none of 
your violence ; if you please ! — It won't do with 
me, I promise you. 

Abs. indeed, sir, I never was cooler in my life. 

Sir Anth. 'Tis a confounded lie ! — I know you 
are in a passion in your heart ; I know you are, 
you hypocritical young dog ! but it won't do. 

Abs. Nay, sir, upon my word — 

Sir Anth. So you will fly out ! can't you be 
cool like me ? What the devil good can passion 
do ? — Passion is of no service, you impudent, in- 
solent, overbearing reprobate ! — There, you sneer 
again ! don't provoke me ! — but you rely upon the 
mildness of my temper — you do, you dog ! you 
play upon the meekness of my disposition '. — Yet 
take care — the patience ol a saint may be over- 
come at IdSt ! — but mark ! I give you six hours 
and a half to consider of this : if you then agree. 



without any condition, to do everything on. earth 
that I choose, why — confound you ! I may in time 
forgive you. — If not, zounds ! don't enter the same 
hemisphere with me ! don't dare to breathe the 
same air, or use the same light with me ; but get 
an atmosphere and a sun of your own ! I'll strip 
you of your commission ; I'll lodge a five-and- 
threepence in the hands of trustees, and you shall 
live on the interest. — I'll disown you, I'll disinherit 
you, I'll unget you ! and damn me ! if ever I call 
you Jack again ! [Exit. 

Abs. Mild, gentle, considerate father — I kiss 
your hands ! — What a tender method of giving his 
opinion in these matters sir Anthony has ! I dare 
not trust him with the truth. — I wonder what old 
wealthy hag it is that he wants to bestow on me ! 
— Yet he married himself for love ! and was in his 
youth a bold intriguer, and a gay companion ! 

Re-enter Fag. 

Fag. Assuredly, sir, your father is wrath to a 
degree ; he comes down stairs eight or ten steps at 
a time — muttering, growling, and thumping the 
banisters all the way : I and the cook's dog stand 
bowing at the door — rap ! he gives me a stroke on 
the head with his cane ; bids me carry that to my 
master ; then kicking the poor turnspit into the 
area, damns us all, for a puppy triumvirate ! — Upon 
my credit, sir, were I in your place, and found my 
father such very bad company, I should certainly 
drop his acquaintance. 

Abs. Cease your impertinence, sir, at present. 
— Did you come in for nothing more ? — Stand out 
of the way ! [Pushes him aside, and exit. 

Fag. So ! sir Anthony trims my master : he is 
afraid to reply to his father — then vents his spleen 
on poor Fag ! — When one is vexed by one person, 
to revenge one's self on another, who happens to 
come in the way, is the vilest injustice ! Ah ! it 
shows the worst temper — the basest — 

Enter Boy. 

Boy. Mr. Fag ! Mr. Fag ! your master calls 
you. 

Fag. Well, you little dirty puppy, you need not 
bawl so ! — The meanest disposition ! the — 

Bog. Quick, quick, Mr. Fag ! 

Fag. Quick! quick! you impudent jackanapes ! 
am I to be commanded by you too ? you little, im- 
pertinent, insolent, kitchen-bred — 

[Exit kicking and beati- 



SCENE II.— The Xorth Parade. 
EnUr Lucy. 

Lucy. So — I shall have another rival to add to 
my mistress's list — Captain Absolute. However, 
I shall not enter his name till my purse has received 
notice in form. Poor Acres is dismissed ! — Well, 
I have done him a last friendly office, in letting 
him know that Beverley was here before him. — Sir 
Lucius is generally more punctual, when he expects 
to hear from his dear Dalia, as he calls her : I 
wonder he's not here ! — I have a little scruple of 
conscience from this deceit ; though I should not 
be paid so well, if my hero knew that Delia was 
near fifty, and her own mistress. 



ir 



12 



THE RIVALS. 



Enter Sir Lucius O'Trigger. 

Sir Luc. Ha ! my little ambassadress — upon my 
conscience, I have been looking for you ; I have 
been on the South Parade this half hour. 

Lucy. {Speaking simply.'] O gemini ! and I 
have been waiting for your worship here on the 
North. 

Sir Luc. Faith ! — may be that was the reason 
we did not meet ; and it is very comical too, how 
you could go out and I not see you — for I was only 
taking a nap at the Parade coffee-house, and I 
chose the window on purpose that I might not miss 
you. 

Lucy. My stars ! Now I'd wager a sixpence I 
went by while you were asleep. 

Sir Luc. Sure enough it must have been so — 
and I never dreamt it was so late, till I waked. 
Well, but my little girl, have you got nothing for 
me? 

Lucy. Yes, but I have— I've got a letter for you 
in my pocket. 

Sir Luc. O faith ! I guessed you weren't come 
empty-handed — well — let me see what the dear 
creature says. 

Lucy. There, sir Lucius. [Gives him a letter. 

Sir Luc. [ Reads.] Sir — there is often a sudden 
incentive impulse in love, that has a greater induc- 
tion than years of domestic combination : such was 
the commotion I felt at the first superfluous view 
of sir Lucius O'Trigger. — Very pretty, upon my 
word. — Female punctuation forbids me to say 
more ; yet let me add, that it will give me joy infal- 
lible to find sir Lucius worthy the last criterion of 
my affections. Delia. 

Upon my conscience ! Lucy, your lady is a great 
mistress of language. Faith, she's quite the queen 
of the dictionary ! — for the devil a word dare refuse 
coming at her call — though one would think it was 
quite out of hearing. 

Lucy. Ay, sir, a lady of her experience — 

Sir Luc. Experience ? what, at seventeen ? 

Lucy. O true, sir — but then she reads so — my 
stars ! how she will read off hand ! 

Sir Luc. Faith, she must be very deep read to 
write this way — though she is rather an arbitrary 
writer too — for here are a great many poor words 
pressed into the service of this note, that would 
get their habeas corpus from any court in Chris- 
tendom. 

Luc. Ah ! sir Lucius, if you were to hear how 
she talks of you ! 

Sir Luc. Oh, tell her I'll make her the best hus- 
band in the world, and lady O'Trigger into the 
bargain ! — But we must get the old gentlewoman's 
consent — and do everything fairly. 

Lucy. Nay, sir Lucius, I thought you wa'n't 
rich enough to be so nice ! 

Sir Luc. Upon my word, young woman, you 



have hit it : — I am so poor, that I can't afford 
to do a dirty action. — If I did not want money, I'd 
steal your mistress and her fortune with a great 
deal of pleasure. — However, my pretty girl, [Gives 
her money] here's a little something to buy you 
a ribbon ; and meet me in the evening, and I'll give 
you an answer to this. So, hussy, take a kiss be- 
forehand, to put you in mind. [Kisses her. 

Lucy. O Lud ! sir Lucius — I never seed such a 
gemman ! My lady won't like you if you're so 
impudent. 

Sir Luc. Faith she will, Lucy ! — That same 

pho ! what's the name of it ? — modesty — is a qua- 
lity in a lover more praised by the women than 
liked ; so, if your mistress asks you whether sir 
Lucius ever gave you a kiss, tell her fifty — my 
dear. 

Lucy. What, would you have me tell her a lie ? 

Sir Luc. Ah then, you baggage ! I'll make it a 
truth presently. 

Ijucy. For shame now ! here is some one 
coming. 

Sir Luc. Oh, faith, I'll quiet your conscience I 
[Exit, humming a tune. 

Enter Fag. 

Fag. So, so, ma'am ! I humbly beg pardon. 

Luc. O Lud ! now, Mr. Fag — you flurry one so. 

Fag. Come, come, Lucy, here's no one by — so 
a little less simplicity, with a grain or two more 
sincerity, if you please. — You play false with us r 
madam. — I saw you give the baronet a letter. — My 
master shall know this — and if he don't call him 
out, I will. 

Lucy. Ha ! ha ! ha ! you gentlemen's gentle- 
men are so hasty. — That letter was from Mrs. 
Malaprop, simpleton. — She is taken with sir Lu- 
cius's address. 

Fag. How ! what tastes some people have ! — 
Why, I suppose I have walked by her window a 
hundred times.— But what says our young lady ? 
any message to my master ? 

Lucy. Sad news, Mr. Fag. — A worse rival than 
Acres ! Sir Anthony Absolute has proposed his 
son. 

Fag. What, Captain Absolute ? 

Lucy. Even so — I overheard it all. 

Fag. Ha ! ha ! ha ! very good, faith. Good bye, 
Lucy, I must away with this news. 

Lucy. Well, you may laugh— but it is true, I 
assure you. — [Going.] But, Mr. Fag, tell your 
master not to be cast down by this. 

Fag. Oh, he'll be so disconsolate ! 

Lucy. And charge him not to think of quarrel- 
ling with young Absolute. 

Fag. Never fear ! never fear ! 

Lucy. Be sure — bid him keep up his spirits. 

Fag. We will — we will. [Exeunt severally. 



THE RIVALS. 



13 



ACT III. 



SCENE I.— The North Parade. 
Enter Captain Absolute. 

Abs. 'Tis just as Fag told me, indeed. — Whim- 
sical enough, faith ! My father wants to force me 
to marry the very girl I am plotting to run away 
with ! — He must not know of my connexion with 
her yet awhile. — He has too summary a method of 
proceeding in these matters. — However, I'll read 
my recantation instantly. — My conversion is some- 
thing sudden, indeed — but I can assure him it is 
very sincere. — So, so, — here he comes. — He looks 
plaguy gruff. ISteps aside. 

Enter Sir Anthony Absolute. 

Sir Anth. No — I'll die sooner than forgive him. 
Die, did I say ? I'll live these fifty years to plague 
him. — At our last meeting, his impudence had 
almost put me out of temper. — An obstinate, pas- 
sionate, self-willed boy ! — Who can he take after ? 
This is my return for getting him before all his 
brothers and sisters ! — for putting him, at twelve 
years old, into a marching regiment, and allowing 
him fifty pounds a- year, besides his pay, ever since ! 
— But I have done with him ; he's anybody's son 
for me — I never will see him more, never — never 
— never — never ! 

Abs. [Aside, coming forward.'] Now for a peni- 
tential face. 

Sir Anth. Fellow, get out of my way ! 

Abs. Sir, you see a penitent before you. 

Sir Anth. I see an impudent scoundrel before 
me. 

Abs. A sincere penitent. — I am come, sir, to 
acknowledge my error, and to submit entirely to 
your will. 

Sir Anth. What's that ? 

Abs. I have been revolving, and reflecting, and 
considering on your past goodness, and kindness, 
and condescension to me. 

Sir Anth. Well, sir? 

Abs. I have been likewise weighing and balan- 
cing what you were pleased to mention concerning 
duty, and obedience, and authority. 

Sir Anth. Well, puppy ? 

Abs. Why then, sir, the result of my reflections 
is — a resolution to sacrifice every inclination of my 
own to your satisfaction. 

Sir Anth. Why now you talk sense — absolute 
sense — I never heard anything more sensible in my 
life — Confound you ! you shall be Jack again. 

Abs. I am happy in the appellation. 

Sir Anth. Why then, Jack, my dear Jack, I will 
now inform you who the lady really is.— Nothing 
but your passion and violence, you silly fellow, pre- 
vented my telling you at first. Prepare, Jack, for 
wonder and rapture — prepare. — What think you of 
Miss Lydia Languish ? 

Abs. Languish ! What, the Languishes of Wor- 
cestershire ? 

Sir Anth. Worcestershire ! no. Did you never 
meet Mrs. Malaprop and her niece, Miss Languish, 
who came into our country just before you weie 
last ordered to your regiment ? 



Abs. Malaprop! Languish! I don't remember 
ever to have heard the names before. Yet, stay — 
I think I do recollect something — Languish ! 
Languish ! She squints, don't she ? — A little red- 
haired girl ? 

Sir Anth. Squints ! — A red-haired girl ! — 
Zounds ! no. 

Abs. Then I must have forgot ; it can't be the 
same person. 

Sir Anth. Jack ! Jack ! what think you of 
blooming, love-breathing seventeen ? 

Abs. As to that, sir, I am quite indifferent. — 
If I can please you in the matter, 'tis all I desire. 

Sir Anth. Nay, but Jack, such eyes ! such 
eyes ! so innocently wild ! so bashfully irresolute ! 
not a glance but speaks and kindles some thought 
of love ! — Then, Jack, her cheeks ! her cheeks. 
Jack ! so deeply blushing at the insinuations of her 
tell-tale eyes! — Then, Jack, her lips! O Jack, 
lips smiling at their own discretion ; and if not 
smiling, more sweetly pouting ; more lovely in 
sullenness ! 

Abs. That's she indeed — Well done, old gen- 
tleman ! [Aside. 

Sir Anth. Then, Jack, her neck ! — O Jack ! 
Jack! 

Abs. And which is to be mine, sir, the niece or 
the aunt ? 

Sir Anth. Why, you unfeeling, insensible puppy, 
I despise you ! When I was of your age, such a 
description would have made me fly like a rocket ! 
The aunt indeed ! — Odds life ! when I ran away 
with your mother, I would not have touched any- 
thing old or ugly to gain an empire. 

Abs. Not to please your father, sir ? 

Sir Anth. To please my father ! zounds ! not 
to please — Oh, my father — odd so ! — yes — yes ; if 
my father indeed had desired — that's quite another 
matter. — Though he waVt the indulgent father 
that I am, Jack. 

Abs. I dare say not, sir. 

Sir Anth. But, Jack, you are not sorry to find 
your mistress is so beautiful ? 

Abs. Sir, I repeat it — if I please you in this 
affair, 'tis all I desire. Not that I think a woman 
the worse for being handsome ; but, sir, if you 
please to recollect, you before hinted something 
about a hump or two, one eye, and a few more 
graces of that kind — now, without being very nice, I 
own I should rather choose a wife of mine to have 
the usual number of limbs, and a limited quantity 
of back : and though one eye may be very agree- 
able, yet as the prejudice has always run in favour 
of two, I would not wish to affect a singularity in 
that article. 

Sir Anth. What a phlegmatic sot it is ! Why, 

sirrah, you're an anchorite ! — a vile, insensible 

stock. You a soldier ! — you're a walking block, 

fit only to dust the company's regimentals on ! — 

i Odds life ! I've a great mind to marry the girl 

J myself! 

Abs. I am entirely at your disposal, sir : if you 
should think of addressing Miss Languish yourself, 
I suppose you would have me marry the aunt ; or 



14 



THE RIVALS. 



if you should change your mind, and take the old 
lady — 'tis the same to me — I'll marry the niece. 

Sir Anth. Upon my word, Jack, thou'rt either 
a very great hypocrite, or — but, come, I know your 
indifference on such a subject must be all a lie — 
I'm sure it must — come, now — damn your demure 
face ! — come, confess Jack — you have been lying 
— ha'n't you ? You have been playing the hypo- 
crite, hey ! — 111 never forgive you, if you ha'n't 
been lying and playing the hypocrite. 

Abs. I'm sorry, sir, that the respect and duty 
which I bear to you should be so mistaken. 

Sir Anth. Hang your respect and duty ! But 
come along with me, I'll write a note to Mrs. 
Malaprop, and you shall visit the lady directly. 
Her eyes shall be the Promethean torch to you, — 
come along, I'll never forgive you, if you don't 
come back stark mad with rapture and impatience 
— if you don't, egad, I'll marry the girl myself! 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE II. — Julia's Dressing-room. 
Faulkland discovered alone. 
Faulk. They told me Julia would return 
directly ; I wonder she is not yet come ! — How 
mean does this captious, unsatisfied temper of 
mine appear to my cooler judgment ! Yet I know 
not that I indulge it in any other point : — but on 
this one subject, and to this one subject, whom I 
think I love beyond my life, I am ever ungene- 
rously fretful and madly capricious ! — I am con- 
scious of it — yet I cannot correct myself ! What 
tender honest joy sparkled in her eyes when we 
met ! how delicate was the warmth of her expres- 
sions ! — I was ashamed to appear less happy — 
though I had come resolved to wear a face of cool- 
ness and upbraiding. Sir Anthony's presence 
prevented my proposed expostulations : — yet I 
must be satisfied that she has not been so very 
happy in my absence. — She is coming ! — Yes ! — 
I know the nimbleness of her tread, when she 
thinks her impatient Faulkland counts the mo- 
ments of her stay. 

Enter Julia. 

Jul. I had not hoped to see you again so soon. 

Faulk. Could I, Julia, be contented with my 
first welcome — restrained as we were by the pre- 
sence of a third person ? 

Jul. O Faulkland, when your kindness can make 
me thus happy, let me not think that I discovered 
something of coldness in your first salutation. 

Faulk. 'Twas but your fancy, Julia. — I was 

rejoiced to see you — to see you in such health 

Sure I had no cause for coldness ? 

Jul. Nay then, I see you have taken something 
ill. — You must not conceal from me what it is. 

Faulk. Well, then — shall I own to you that my 
joy at hearing of your health and arrival here, by 
your neighbour Acres, was somewhat damped by 
his dwelling much on the high spirits you had 
enjoyed in Devonshire — on your mirth — your sing- 
ing — dancing, and I know not what ! For such is 
my temper, Julia, that I should regard every mirth- 
ful moment in your absence as a treason to con- 
stancy. — The mutual tear that steals down the 
cheek of parting lovers is a compact, that no smile 
shall live there till they meet again. 



Jul. Must I never cease to tax my Faulkland 
with this teasing minute caprice ? — Can the idle 
reports of a silly boor weigh in your breast against 
my tried affection ? 

Faulk. They have no weight with me, Julia : 
No, no — I am happy if you have been so — yet only 
say, that you did not sing with mirth — say that 
you thought of Faulkland in the dance. 

Jul. I never can be happy in your absence. — If 
I wear a countenance of content, it is to show that 
my mind holds no doubt of my Faulkland's truth. 
If I seemed sad, it were to make malice triumph ; 
and say, that I had fixed my heart on one, who left 
me to lament his roving, and my own credulity. 
Believe me, Faulkland, I mean not to upbraid you, 
when 1 say, that I have often dressed sorrow in 
smiles, lest my friends should guess whose unkind- 
ness had caused my tears. 

Faulk. You were ever all goodness to me. — Oh, 
I am a brute, when I but admit a doubt of your 
true constancy ! 

Jul. If ever without such cause from you, as I 
will not suppose possible, you find my affections 
veering but a point, may I become a proverbial 
scoff for levity and base ingratitude. 

Faulk. Ah ! Julia, that last word is grating to me. 
I would I had no title to your gratitude ! Search 
your heart, Julia ; perhaps what you have mis- 
taken for love, is but the warm effusion of a too 
thankful heart ! 

Jul. For what quality must I love you ? 

Faulk. For no quality ! To regard me for any 
quality of mind or understanding, were only to 
esteem me. And for person — I have often wished 
myself deformed, to be convinced that I owed no 
obligation there for any part of your affection. 

Jul. Where nature has bestowed a show of nice 
attention in the features of a man, he should laugh 
at it as misplaced. I have seen men, who in this 
vain article, perhaps, might rank above you ; but 
my heart has never asked my eyes if it were so or 
not. 

Faulk. Now this is not well from you, Julia, — 
I despise person in a man — yet if you loved me as 
I wish, though I were an iEthiop, you'd think 
none so fair. 

Jul. I see you are determined to be unkind ! — 
The contract which my p^oor father bound us in 
gives you more than a lover's privilege. 

Faulk. Again, Julia, you raise ideas that feed 
and justify my doubts. — I would not have been 
more free — no — I am proud of my restraint. — 
Yet — yet — perhaps your high respect alone for this 
solemn compact has fettered your inclinations, 
which else had made a worthier choice. — How 
shall I be sure, had you remained unbound in 
thought and promise, that I should still have been 
the object of your persevering love ? 

Jul. Then try me now. — Let us be free as 
strangers as to what is past : — my heart will not 
feel more liberty ! 

Faulk. There now ! so hasty, Julia ! so anxious 
to be free ! — If your love for me were fixed and 
ardent, you would not lose your hold, even though 
I wished it ! 

Jul. Oh ! you torture me to the heart ! I can- 
not bear it. 

Faulk. I do not mean to distress you. If 
I loved you less, I should never give you an 
uneasy moment. — But hear me. — All my fretful 



THE RIVALS. 



15 



doubts arise from this. — Women are not used to 
weigh and separate the motives of their affections : 
the cold dictates of prudence, gratitude, or filial 
duty, may sometimes be mistaken for the plead- 
ings of the heart. I would not boast — yet let me 
say, that I have neither age, person, nor character, 
to found dislike on ; — my fortune such as few 
ladies could be charged with indiscretion in the 
match. O Julia ! when love receives such coun- 
tenance from prudence, nice minds will be suspi- 
cious of its birth. 

Jul. I know not whither your insinuations would 
tend : — but as they seem pressing to insult me, I 
will spare you the regret of having done so. — I 
have given you no cause for this ! [.Exit in tears. 

Faulk. In tears ! Stay, Julia : stay but for a 
moment. — The door is fastened ! — Julia ! — my 
soul — but for one moment ! — I hear her sobbing ! 
— 'Sdeath! what a brute am I to use her thus ! 
Yet stay. — Ay — she is coming now : — how little 
resolution there is in woman! — how a few soft 
words can turn them ! — No, faith ! — she is not 
coming either. — Why, Julia — my love — say but 
that you forgive me — come but to tell me that — now 
this is being too resentful. — Stay ! she is coming 
too — I thought she would — no steadiness in any- 
thing ! her going away must have been a mere trick 
then — she sha'n't see that I was hurt by it. — I'll 
affect indifference — [Hums a tune : then listens. ,] 
No — zounds! she's not coming! — nor don't 
intend it, I suppose. — This is not steadiness, but 
obstinacy ! Yet I deserve it. — What, after so long 
an absence to quarrel with her tenderness ! — 'twas 
barbarous and unmanly ! — I should be ashamed to 
see her now. — I'll wait till her just resentment is 
abated — and when I distress her so again, may I 
lose her for ever ! and be linked instead to some 
antique virago, whose gnawing passions, and long 
hoarded spleen, shall make me curse my folly half 
the day and all the night. [Exit. 



SCENE III. — Mrs. Malaprop's Lodgings. 

Mrs. Malaprop, with a letter in her hand, and Captain 
Absolute. _ 

Mrs. Mai. Your being sir Anthony's son, cap- 
tain, would itself be a sufficient accommodation ; 
but from the ingenuity of your appearance, I am 
convinced you deserve the character here given of 
you. 

Abs. Permit me to say, madam, that as I never 
yet have had the pleasure of seeing Miss Languish, 
my principal inducement in this affair at present is 
the honour of being allied to Mrs. Malaprop ; of 
whose intellectual accomplishments, elegant man- 
ners, and unaffected learning, no tongue is silent. 

Mrs. Mai. Sir, you do me infinite honour ! I 
beg, captain, you'll be seated.— {They sit.~\ Ah! 
few gentlemen, now-a-days, know how to value the 
ineffectual qualities in a woman ! few think how a 

little knowledge becomes a gentlewoman ! Men 

have no sense now but for the worthless flower of 
beauty ! 

Abs. It is but too true indeed, ma'am ; — yet 
I fear our ladies should share the blame — they 
think our admiration of beauty so great, that 
knowledge in them would be superfluous. Thus, 
like garden-trees, they seldom show fruit, till time 



has robbed them of the more specious blossom. — 
Few, like Mrs. Malaprop and the orange-tree, are 
rich in both at once ! 

Mrs. Mai. Sir, you overpower me with good- 
breeding. — He is the very pine-apple of politeness ! 
— You are not ignorant, captain, that this giddy 
girl has somehow contrived to fix her affections on 
a beggarly, strolling, eaves -dropping ensign, whom 
none of us have seen, and nobody knows anything 
of. 

Abs. Oh, I have heard the silly affair before. — 
I'm not at all prejudiced against her on that 
account. 

Mrs. Mai. You are very good and very con- 
siderate, captain. I am sure I have done every- 
thing m my power since I exploded the affair ; 
long ago I laid my positive conjunctions on her, 
never to think on the fellow again ; — I have since 
laid sir Anthony's preposition before her ; but, I 
am sorry to say, she seems resolved to decline 
every particle that I enjoin her. 

Abs. It must be very distressing, indeed, ma'am. 

Mrs. Mai. Oh ! it gives me the hydrostatics to 
such a degree. — I thought she had persisted from 
corresponding with him; but, behold, this very 
day, I have interceded another letter from the 
fellow ; I believe I ha've it in my pocket. 

Abs. Oh, the devil ! my last note. [Aside. 

Mrs. Mai. Ay, here it is. 

Abs. Ay, my note indeed ! O the little traitress 
Lucy. [Aside. 

Mrs. Mai. There, perhaps you may know the 
writing. [Gives him the letter. 

Abs. I think I have seen the hand before — yes, 
I certainly must have seen this hand before — 

Mrs. Mai. Nay, but read it, captain. 

Abs. [Reads.] My soul's idol, my adored 
Lydia I — Very tender indeed ! 

Mrs. Mai. Tender ! ay, and profane too, o'my 
conscience ! 

Abs. [Reads.] J am excessively alarmed at the 
intelligence you send me, the more so as my new 
rival — 

Mrs. Mai. That's you, sir. 

Abs. [Reads.] Has universally the character 
of being an accomplished gentleman and a man of 
honour. — Well, that's handsome enough. 

Mrs. Mai. Oh, the fellow has some design in 
writing so. 

Abs. That he had, I'll answer for him, ma'am. 

Mrs. Mai. But go on, sir, — you'll see presently. 

Abs. [Reads.] As for the old weather-beaten 
she-dragon who guards you — Who can he mean 
by that ? 

Mrs. Mai. Me, sir — me ! — he means me ! — 
There — what do you think now ? — but go on a 
little further. 

Abs. Impudent scoundrel ! — [Reads.] it shall 
go hard but J will elude her vigilance, as 1 am 
told that the same ridiculous vanity, which makes 
her dress up her coarse features, and deck her dull 
chat with hard words which she don't understand — 

Mrs. Mai. There, sir, an attack upon my lan- 
guage ! what do you think of that ? — an aspersion 
upon my parts of speech ! was ever such a brute ! 
Sure, if I reprehend anything in this world, it is 
the use of my oracular tongue, and a nice derange- 
ment of epitaphs ! 

Abs. He deserves to be hanged and quartered ! 
let me see — [Reads.] same ridiculous vanity — 



16 



THE RIVALS. 



ACT III. 



Mrs. Mai. You need not read it again, sir. 

Abs. I beg pardon, ma'am. — [Reads.] does also 
lay her open to the grossest deceptions from flat- 
tery and pretended admiration — an impudent cox- 
comb ! — so that I have a scheme to see you shortly 
with the old harridan's consent, and even to make 
her a go-between in our interview. — Was ever such 
assurance ! 

Mrs. Mai. Did you ever hear anything like it ? 
— he'll elude my vigilance, will he — yes, yes ! ha ! 
ha ! he's very likely to enter these doors ; — we'll 
try who can plot best ! 

Abs. So we will, ma'am — so we will. — Ha ! ha ! 
ha ! a conceited puppy, ha !<-ha ! ha! — Well, but, 
Mrs. Malaprop, as the girl seems so infatuated by 
this fellow, suppose you were to wink at her cor- 
responding with him for a little time— let her even 
plot an elopement with him — then do you connive 
at her escape — while I, just in the nick, will have 
the fellow laid by the heels, and fairly contrive to 
carry her off in his stead. 

Mrs. Mai. I am delighted with the scheme ; 
never was anything better perpetrated ! 

Abs. But, pray, could not I see the lady for a 
few minutes now ? — I should like to try her temper 
a little. 

Mrs. Mai. Why, I don't know — I doubt she is 
not prepared for a visit of this kind. — There is a 
decorum in these matters. 

Abs. O Lord! she won't mind me — only tell 
her Beverley — 

Mrs. Mai. Sir ! 

Abs. Gently, good tongue. [Aside. 

Mrs. Mai. What did you say of Beverley ? 

Abs. Oh, I was going to propose that you should 
tell her, by way of jest, that it was Beverley who 
was below — she'd come down fast enough then — 
ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Mrs. Mai. 'T would be a trick she well deserves 
— besides, you know the fellow tells her he'll get 
my consent to see her — ha ! ha ! — Let him if he 
can, I say again. — Lydia, come down here ! — 
[Calling."] He'll make me a go-between in their 
interviews ! — ha ! ha ! ha ! — Come down, I say, 
Lydia ! — I don't wonder at your laughing, ha ! ha ! 
ha ! his impudence is truly ridiculous. 

Abs. 'Tis very ridiculous, upon my soul, ma'am, 
ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Mrs. Mai. The little hussy won't hear — Well, 
I'll go and tell her at once who it is — she shall 
know that captain Absolute is come to wait on 
her. — And I'll make her behave as becomes a young 
woman. 

Abs. As you please, ma'am. 

Mrs. Mai. For the present, captain, your 
servant. — Ah ! you've not done laughing yet, I 
see — elude my vigilance ! yes, yes ; ha ! ha ! ha ! 

[Exit. 

Abs. Ha ! ha ! ha ! one would think now that I 
might throw off all disguise at once, and seize my 
prize with security — but such is Lydia's caprice, 
that to undeceive were probably to lose her. — I'll 
see whether she knows me. 

[Walks aside, and seems engaged in looking at the 
pictures. 

Enter Lydia. 

Lyd. What a scene am I now to go through ! 
surely nothing can be more dreadful than to be 
obliged to listen to the loathsome addresses of a 
stranger to one's heart. — I have heard of girls 



persecuted as I am, who have appealed in behalf of 
their favoured lover to the generosity of his rival : 
suppose I were to try it — there stands the hated 
rival — an officer too ! — but oh, how unlike my 
Beverley ! — I wonder he don't begin — truly he 
seems a very negligent wooer ! — quite at his ease, 
upon my word ! — I'll speak first — Mr. Absolute. 

Abs. Ma'am. [Turns round 

Lyd. O heavens ! Beverley ! 

Abs. Hush ! — hush, my life ! softly ! be not 
surprised ! 

Lyd. I am so astonished ! and so terrified ! 
and so overjoyed ! — for Heaven's sake ! how came 
you here ? 

Abs. Briefly, I have deceived your aunt — I was 
informed that my new rival was to visit here this 
evening, and contriving to have him kept away, 
have passed myself on her for captain Absolute. 

Lyd. O charming ! — And she really takes you 
for young Absolute ? 

Abs. Oh, she's convinced of it. 

Lyd. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I can't forbear laughing to 
think how her sagacity is overreached ! 

Abs. But we trifle with our precious moments — 
such another opportunity may not occur — then let 
me now conjure my kind, my condescending angel, 
to fix the time when I may rescue her from unde- 
serving persecution, and with a licensed warmth 
plead for my reward. 

Lyd. Will you then, Beverley, consent to forfeit 
that portion of my paltry wealth ? — that burden on 
the wings of love ? 

Abs. Oh, come to me — rich only thus — in love- 
liness ! — Bring no portion to me but thy love — 
'twill be generous in you, Lydia — for well you 
know, it is the only dower your poor Beverley can 
repay. 

Lyd. How persuasive are his words ! — how 
charming will poverty be with him ? [Aside. 

Abs. Ah ! my soul, what a life will we then live ! 
Love shall be our idol and support ! we will wor- 
ship him with a monastic strictness ; abjuring all 
worldly toys, to centre every thought and action 
there. — Proud of calamity, we will enjoy the wreck 
of wealth; while the surrounding gloom of adversity 
shall make the flame of our pure love show doubly 
bright. — By Heavens I I would fling all goods of 
fortune from me with a prodigal hand, to enjoy the 
scene where I might clasp my Lydia to my bosom, 
and say, the world affords no smile to me but here 
— [Embracing her.} If she holds out now, the devil 
is in it ! [Aside. 

Lyd. Now could I fly with him to the antipodes ! 
but my persecution is not yet come to a crisis. 

[Aside. 

Re-enter Mrs. Malaprop, listening. 

Mrs. Mai. I am impatient to know how the 
little hussy deports herself. {.Aside. 

Abs. So pensive, Lydia !— is then your warmth 
abated ? 

Mrs. Mai. Warmth abated ! — so !— she has 
been in a passion, I suppose. [Aside. 

Lyd. No — nor ever can while I have life. 

Mrs. Mai. An ill-tempered little devil 1 — She'll 
be in a passion all her life. — will she ? [Aside. 

Lyd. Think not the idle threats of my ridiculous 
aunt can ever have any weight with me. 

Mrs. Mai. Very dutiful, upon my word ! [Aside. 

Lyd. Let her choice be captain Absolute, but 
Beverley is mine. 



THE RIVALS. 



17 



Mrs. Mai. I am astonished at her assurance ! — 
to his face — this is to his face ! [Aside. 

Abs. Thus then let me enforce my suit. 

[Kneeling. 

Mrs. Mai. [Aside.] Ay, poor young man ! — 
down on his knees entreating for pity ! — I can 
contain no longer. — [Coming forward.] Why, thou 
vixen ! — I have overheard you. 

Abs. Oh, confound her vigilance ! [Aside. 

Mrs. Mai. Captain Absolute, I know not how 
to apologise for her shocking rudeness. 

Abs. [Aside.] So — all's safe, I find. — [Aloud.] 
I have hopes, madam, that time will bring the 
young lady — 

Mrs. Mai. Oh, there's nothing to be hoped for 
from her ! she's as headstrong as an allegory on 
the banks of Nile. 

Lyd. Nay, madam, what do you charge me with 
now ? 

Mrs. Mai. Why, thou unblushing rebel — didn't 
you tell this gentleman to his face that you loved 
another better ? — didn't you say you never would 
be his ? 

Lyd. No, madam — I did not. 

Mrs. Mai. Good Heavens ! what assurance ! — 
Lydia, Lydia, you ought to know that lying don't 
become a young woman ! — Didn't you boast that 
Beverley, that stroller Beverley, possessed your 
heart ? — Tell me that, I say. 

Lyd. 'Tis true, ma'am, and none but Beverley — 

Mrs. Mai. Hold ! — hold, Assurance ! — you shall 
not be so rude. 

Abs. Nay, pray, Mrs. Malaprop, don't stop the 
young lady's speech : — she's very welcome to talk 
thus — it does not hurt me in the least, I assure 
you. 

Mrs. Mai. You are too good, captain — too 
amiably patient — but come with me, miss — Let us 
see you again soon, captain — remember what we 
have fixed. 

Abs. I shall, ma'am. 

Mrs. Mai. Come, take a graceful leave of the 
gentleman. 

Lyd. May every blessing wait on my Beverley, 
my loved Bev — 

Mrs. Mai. Hussy ! I'll choke the word in your 
throat ! — come along — come along. 

[Exeunt severally ; Captain Absolute kissing his 
hand to Lydia — Mrs. Malaprop stopping her from 
speaking. 



SCENE IV. — Acres' s Lodgings. 
Acres, as just dressed, and David. 

Acres. Indeed, David — do you think I become 
it so ? 

Dav. You are quite another creature, believe 
me, master, by the mass ! an' we've any luck we 
shall see the Devon monkerony in all the print- 
shops in Bath ! 

Acres. Dress does make a difference, David. 

Dav. 'Tis all in all, I think.— Difference ! why, 
an' you were to go now to Clod-hall, I am certain 
the old lady wouldn't know you : master Butler 
wouldn't believe his own eyes, and Mrs. Pickle 
would cry, Lard presarve me ! our dairy-maid 
would come giggling to the door, and I warrant 
Dolly Tester, your honour's favourite, would blush 



like my waistcoat. — Oons ! I'll hold a gallon, there 
an't a dog in the house but would bark, and I 
question whether Phillis would wag a hair of her 
tail! 

Acres. Ay, David, there's nothing like polishing. 

Dav. So I says of your honour's boots ; but the 
boy never heeds me ! 

Acres. But, David, has Mr. De-la-grace been 
here ? I must rub up my balancing, and chasing, 
and boring. 

Dav. I'll call again, sir. 

Acres. Do — and see if there are any letters for 
me at the post-office. 

Dav. I will. — By the mass, I can't help looking 
at your head ! —if I hadn't been by at the cooking, 
I wish I may die if I should have known the dish 
again myself! [Exit. 

Acres. [Practising a dancing -step.] Sink, slide 
— coupee. — Confound the first inventors of cotil- 
lons ! say I — they are as bad as algebra to us 
country gentlemen — I can walk a minuet easy 
enough when I am forced ! — and I have been ac- 
counted a good stick in a countrydance. — Odds 
jigs and tabors ! I never valued your cross-over to 
couple — figure in — right and left — and I'd foot it 
with e'er a captain in the county ! — but these out- 
landish heathen allemandes and cotillons are quitp 
beyond me ! — I shall never prosper at 'em, that's 
sure — mine are true-born English legs — they don't 
understand their curst French lingo ! — their pas 
this, and pas that, and pas t'other ! — damn me ! 
my feet don't like to be called paws ! no, 'tis cer- 
tain I have most Antigallican toes ! 

Enter Servant. 
Serv. Here is sir Lucius O'Trigger to wait on 



you, sir. 

Acres. Show him in. 



[Exit Servant. 



Enter Sir Lucius O'Trigger. 

Sir Luc. Mr. Acres, I am delighted to embrace 
you. 

Acres. My dear sir Lucius, I kiss your hands. 

Sir Luc. Pray, my friend, what has brought you 
so suddenly to Bath ? 

Acres. Faith ! I have followed Cupid's Jack-a- 
lantern, and find myself in a quagmire at last. — 
In short, I have been very ill used, sir Lucius. — I 
don't choose to mention names, but look on me as 
on a very ill-used gentleman. 

Sir Luc. Pray what is the case ? — I ask no 
names. 

Acres. Mark me, sir Lucius, I fall as deep as 
need be in love with a young lady — her friends take 
my part — I follow her to Bath — send word of my 
arrival ; and receive answer, that the lady is to be 
otherwise disposed of. — This, sir Lucius, I call being 
ill used. 

Sir Luc. Very ill, upon my conscience. — Pray, 
can you divine the cause of it ? 

Acres. Why, there's the matter : she has another 
lover, one Beverley, who, I am told, is now in Bath. 
— Odds slanders and lies ! he must be at the bot- 
tom of it. 

Sir Luc. A rival in the case, is there ? — and you 
think he has supplanted you unfairly ? 

Acres. Unfairly ! to be sure he has. He never 
could have done it fairly. 

Sir Luo. Then sure you know what is to be 
done ! 

c 



18 



THE RIVALS. 



Acres. Not I, upon my soul ! 

Sir Luc. We wear no swords here, but you un- 
derstand me. 

Acres. What ! fight him ! 

Sir Luc. Ay, to be sure : what can I mean else ? 

Acres. But he has given me no provocation. 

Sir Luc. Now, I think he has given you the 
greatest provocation in the world. Can a man 
commit a more heinous offence against another 
than to fall in love with the same woman ? Oh, 
by my soul ! it is the most unpardonable breach of 
friendship. 

Acres. Breach of friendship ! ay, ay ; but I have 
no acquaintance with this man. I never saw him 
in my life. 

Sir Luc. That's no argument at all — he has the 
less right then to take such a liberty. 

Acres. Gad, that's true — I grow full of anger, 
sir Lucius ! — I fire apace ! Odds hilts and blades ! 
I find a man may have a deal of valour in him, and 
not know it ! But couldn't I contrive to have a 
little right of my side ? 

Sir Luc. What the devil signifies right, when 
your honour is concerned ? Do you think Achilles, 
or my little Alexander the Great, ever inquired 
where the right lay ? No, by my soul, they drew 
their broad-swords, and left the lazy sons of peace 
to settle the justice of it. 

Acres. Your words are a grenadier's march to 
my heart ! I believe courage must be catching ! 
I certainly do feel a kind of valour rising as it 
were — a kind of courage, as 1 may say. — Odds flints, 
pans, and triggers ! I'll challenge him directly. 

Sir Luc. Ah, my little friend, if I had Blun- 
derbuss Hall here, I could show you a range of 
ancestry, in the O'Trigger line, that would furnish 
the new room ; every one of whom had killed his 
man 1 — For though the mansion-house and dirty 
acres have slipped through my fingers, I thank 
heaven our honour and the family-pictures are as 
fresh as ever. 

Acres. O sir Lucius ! I have had ancestors too ! 
— every man of 'em colonel or captain in the mili- 
tia ! — Odds balls and barrels ! say no more— I'm 
braced for it. The thunder of your words has 
soured the milk of human kindness in my breast ; 
— Zounds ! as the man in the play says, I could do 
such deeds ! — 

Sir Luc. Come, come, there must be no passion 
at all in the case — these things should always be 
done civilly. 

Acres. I must be in a passion, sir Lucius — I 
must be in a rage. — Dear sir Lucius, let me be in a 
rage, if you love me. Come, here's pen and paper. 
— [Sits down to write.] I would the ink were red ! 



— Indite, I say indite! — How shall I begin? Odds 
bullets and blades ! I'll write a good bold hand* 
however. 

Sir Luc. Pray compose yourself. 

Acres. Come — now, shall I begin with an oath ? 
Do, sir Lucius, let me begin with a damme. 

Sir Luc. Pho ! pho ! do the thing decently, and 
like a Christian. Begin now — Sir, — 

Acres. That's too civil by half. 

Sir Luc. To prevent the confusion that might 
arise — 

Acres. Well — 

Sir Luc. From our both addressing the same 
lady — 

Acres. Ay, there's the reason — same lady — 
well — 

Sir Luc. / shall expect the honour of your 
company — 

Acres. Zounds ! I'm not asking him to dinner. 

Sir Luc. Pray be easy. 

Acres. Well then, honour of your company — 

Sir Luc. To settle our pretensions — 

Acres. Well. 

Sir Luc. Let me see, ay, King's Mead-field 
will do — in King's Mead-fields. 

Acres. So, that's done — Well, I'll fold it up 
presently ; my own crest — a hand and dagger shall 
be the seal. 

Sir Luc. You see now this little explanation will 
put a stop at once to all confusion or misunder- 
standing that might arise between you. 

Acres. Ay, we fight to prevent any misunder- 
standing. 

Sir Luc. Now, I'll leave you to fix your own 
time. — Take my advice, and you'll decide it this 
evening if you can ; then let the worst come of it, 
'twill be off your mind to-morrow. 

Acres. Very true. 

Sir Luc. So I shall see nothing more of you, 
unless it be by letter, till the evening. — I would 
do myself the honour to carry your message ; but, 
to tell you a secret, I believe I shall have just such 
another affair on my own hands. There is a gay 
captain here, who put a jest on me lately, at the 
expense of my country, and I only want to fall in 
with the gentleman, to call him out. 

Acres. By my valour, I should like to see you 
fight first ! Odds life ! I should like to see you 
kill him, if it was only to get a little lesson. 

Sir Luc. I shall be very proud of instructing 
you. — Well for the present — but remember now, 
when you meet your antagonist, do every thing in 
a mild and agreeable manner. — Let your courage 
be as keen, but at the same time as polished, as 
your sword. [Exeunt severally. 



ACT IV. 



SCENE I. — Acres's Lodgings. 
Acres and David. 
Dav. Then, by the mass, sir! I would do no 
such thing— ne'er a sir Lucius O'Trigger in the 
kingdom should make me fight, when I wa'n't so 
minded. Oons ! what will the old lady say, when 
she hears o't? 



Acres. Ah ! David, if you had heard sir Lucius '. 
— Odds sparks and flames ! he would have roused 
your valour. 

Dav. Not he, indeed. I hates such bloodthirsty 
cormorants. Look'ee, master, if you'd wanted a 
bout at boxing, quarter-staff, or short-staff, I 
should never be the man to bid you cry off : but 
for your curst sharps and snaps, I never knew any 
good come of 'em. 



THE RIVALS. 



19 



Acres. But my honour, David, my honour ! I 
must be very careful of my honour. 

Dav. Ay, by the mass ! and I would be very 
careful of it ; and I think in return my honour 
couldn't do less than to be very careful of me. 

Acres. Odds blades ! David, no gentleman will 
ever risk the loss of his honour ! 

Dav. I say then, it would be but civil in honour 
never to risk the loss of a gentleman. — Look'ee, 
master, this honour seems to me to be a marvellous 
false friend : ay, truly, a very courtier-like servant. 
— Put the case, I was a gentleman (which, thank 
God, no one can say of me) ; well — my honour 
makes me quarrel with another gentleman of my 
acquaintance. — So — we fight. (Pleasant enough 
that !) Boh ! — I kill him — (the more's my luck !) 
Now, pray who gets the profit of it ? — Why, my 
honour. But put the case that he kills me ! — by 
the mass !. I go to the worms, and my honour 
whips over to my enemy. 

Acres. No, David — in that case ! — Odds crowns 
and laurels ! your honour follows you to the grave. 

Dav. Now, that's just the place where I could 
make a shift to do without it. 

Acres. Zounds ! David, you are a coward ! — It 
doesn't become my valour to listen to you. — What, 
shall I disgrace my ancestors ? — Think of that, 
David — think what it would be to disgrace my 
ancestors ! 

Dav. Under favour, the surest way of not dis- 
gracing them, is to keep as long as you can out of 
their company. Look'ee now, master, to go to 
them in such haste — with an ounce of lead in your 
brains — I should think might as well be let alone. 
Our ancestors are very good kind of folks ; but 
they are the last people I should choose to have a 
visiting acquaintance with. 

Acres. But, David, now, you don't think there 
is such very, very, very great danger, hey ? — 
Odds life ! people often fight without any mischief 
done ! 

Dav. By the mass, I think 'tis ten to one 
against you ! — Oons ! here to meet some lion-headed 
fellow, I warrant, with his damned double-barrelled 
swords, and cut-and-thrust pistols ! — Lord bless 
us ! it makes me tremble to think o't ! — Those be 
such desperate bloody-minded weapons ! Well, I 
never could abide 'em — from a child I never could 
fancy 'em ! — I suppose there an't been so mer- 
ciless a beast in the world as your loaded pistol ! 

Acres. Zounds ! I won't be afraid ! — Odds fire 
and fury ! you shan't make me afraid. — Here is 
the challenge, and I have sent for my dear friend 
Jack Absolute to carry it for me. 

Dav. Ay, i'the name of mischief, let him be the 
messenger. — For my part, I wouldn't lend a hand to 
it for the best horse in your stable. By the mass ! 
it don't look like another letter ! It is, as I may 
say, a designing and malicious-looking letter ; and 
1 warrant smells of gunpowder like a soldier's 
pouch ! — Oons ! I wouldn't swear it mayn't go off ! 

Acres. Out, you poltroon ! you han'c the valour 
of a grasshopper. 

Dav. Well, I say no more — 'twill be sad news, 
to be sure, at Clod-Hall ! but I ha' done. — How 
Phillis will howl when she hears of it ! — Ay, poor 
bitch, she little thinks what shooting her master's 
going after ! . And I warrant old Crop, who has 
carried your honour, field and road, these ten years, 
will curse the hour he was born. [Whimpering. I 



Acres. It won't do, David — I am determined to 
fight — so get along, you coward, while I'm in the 
mind. 

Enter Servant. 

Ser. Captain Absolute, sir. 

Acres. Oh ! show him up. [Exit Servant. 

Dav. Well, Heaven send we be all alive this 
time to-morrow. 

Acres. What's that? — Don't provoke me, David! 

Dav. Good-bye, master. [Whimpering. 

Acres. Get along, you cowardly, dastardly, 
croaking raven ! [Exit David. 

Enter Captain Absolute. 

Abs. What's the matter, Bob ? 

Acres. A vile, sheep-hearted blockhead ! If I 
hadn't the valour of St. George and the dragon to 
boot — 

Abs. But what did you want with me, Bob ? 

Acres. Oh ! — There — [Gives him the challenge. 

Abs. [Aside.] To Ensign Beverley. — So, what's 
going on now ! — [Aloud.] Well, what's this ? 

Acres. A challenge ! 

Abs. Indeed ! Why, you won't fight him ; will 
you, Bob ? 

Acres. Egad, but I will, Jack. Sir Lucius has 
wrought me to it. He has left me full of rage — and 
I'll fight this evening, that so much good passion 
mayn't be wasted. 

Abs. But what have I to do with this ? 

Acres. Why, as I think you know something of 
this fellow, I want you to find him out for me, and 
give him this mortal defiance. 

Abs. Well, give it to me, and trust me he gets it. 

Acres. Thank you, my dear friend, my dear 
Jack ; but it is giving you a great deal of trouble. 

Abs. Not in the least — I beg you won't mention 
it. — No trouble in the world, I assure you. 

Acres. You are very kind. — What it is to have a 
friend ! — You couldn't be my second, could you, 
Jack ? 

Abs. Why no, Bob — not in this affair — it would 
not be quite so proper. 

Acres. Well, then, I must get my friend sir 
Lucius. I shall have your good wishes, however, 
Jack ? 

Abs. Whenever he meets you, believe me. 

Re-enter Servant. 

Ser. Sir Anthony Absolute is below, inquiring 
for the captain. 

Abs. I'll come instantly. — [Exit Servant.] Well, 
my little hero, success attend you. [Going. 

Acres. Stay — stay, Jack. — If Beverley should 
ask you what kind of a man your friend Acres is, do 
tell him I am a devil of a fellow — will you, Jack ? 

Abs. To be sure I shall. I'll say you are a 
determined dog — hey, Bob ! 

Acres. Ay, do, do — and if that frightens him, 
egad, perhaps he mayn't come. So tell him I 
generally kill a man a- week ; will you, Jack ? 

Abs. I will, I will ; I'll say you are called in the 
country Fighting Bob. 

Acres. Right — right — 'tis all to prevent mis- 
chief ; for I don't want to take his life if I clear my 
honour. 

Abs. No ! — that's very kind of you. 

Acres. Why, you don't wish me to kill him — do 
you, Jack ? 



20 



THE RIVALS. 



ACT IV 



Abs. No, upon my soul, I do not. But a devil 
of a fellow, hey ? {Going. 

Acres. True, true — but stay — stay, Jack — you 
may add, that you never saw me in such a rage 
before — a most devouring rage ! 

Abs. I will, I will. 

Acres. Remember, Jack — a determined dog ! 

Abs. Ay, ay, Fighting Bob ! {Exeunt severally. 



SCENE II. — Mrs. Malaprop's Lodgings. 
Mrs. Malaprop and Lydta. 

Mrs. Mai. Why, thou perverse one ! — tell me 
what you can object to him ? Isn't he a handsome 
man ? — tell me that. A genteel man ? a pretty 
figure of a man ? 

Lyd. [Aside."] She little thinks whom she is 
praising ! — [Aloud.] So is Beverley, ma'am. 

Mrs. Mai. No caparisons, miss, if you please. 
Caparisons don't become a young woman. No ! 
Captain Absolute is indeed a fine gentleman ! 

Lyd. Ay, the captain Absolute you have seen. 

{Aside. 

Mrs. Mai. Then he's so well bred ; — so full of 
alacrity and adulation ! — and has so much to say 
for himself : — in such good language too ! His 
physiognomy so grammatical ! Then his presence 
is so noble ! I protest when I saw him, I thought 
of what Hamlet says in the play : — 

" Hesperian curls — the front of Job himself ! — 
An eye, like March, to threaten at command ! — 
A station, like Harry Mercury, new — " 

Something about kissing — on a hill — however, the 
similitude struck me directly. 

Lyd. How enraged she'll be presently when she 
discovers her mistake ! {Aside. 

Enter Servant. 

Ser. Sir Anthony and captain Absolute are 
below, ma'am. 

Mrs. Mai. Show them up here. — [Exit Ser- 
vant.] Now, Lydia, I insist on your behaving as 
becomes a young woman. Show your good breed- 
ing, at least, though you have forgot your duty. 

Lyd. Madam, I have told you my resolution ! — 
I shall not only give him no encouragement, but I 
won't even speak to, or look at him. 

{Flings herself into a chair, with her face from the door. 

Enter Sir Anthony Absolute and Captain Absolute. 

Sir Anth. Here we are, Mrs. Malaprop ; come 
to mitigate the frowns of unrelenting beauty, — and 
difficulty enough I had to bring this fellow. — I 
don't know what's the matter ; but if I had not 
held him by force, he'd have given me the slip. 

Mrs. Mai. You have infinite trouble, sir An- 
thony, in the affair. I am ashamed for the cause ! 
— [Aside to Lydia.] Lydia, Lydia, rise, I beseech 
you ! — pay your respects ! 

Sir Anth. I hope, madam, that Miss Languish 
has reflected on the worth of this gentleman, and 
the regard due to her aunt's choice, and my alliance. 
— [Aside to Captain Absolute.] Now, Jack, 
speak to her. 

Abs. [Aside.] What the devil shall I do !— 
[Aside to Sir Anthony.] You see, sir, she won't 
even look at me whilst you are here. I knew she 



wouldn't ! I told you so. Let me entreat you, 
sir, to leave us together ! 

{Seems to expostulate with his father. 

Lyd. [Aside.'] I wonder I han't heard my aunt 
exclaim yet ! sure she can't have looked at him ! — 
perhaps their regimentals are alike, and she is 
something blind. 

Sir Anth. I say, sir, I won't stir a foot yet ! 

Mrs. Mai. I am sorry to say, sir Anthony, that 
my affluence over my niece is very small. — [Aside 
to Lydia.] Turn round, Lydia : I blush for you ! 

Sir Anth. May I not flatter myself, that Miss 
Languish will assign what cause of dislike she can 
have to my son ! — [Aside to Captain Absolute.] 
Why don't you begin, Jack ? — Speak, you puppy 
— speak ! 

Mrs. Mai. It is impossible, sir Anthony, she 
can have any. She will not say she has. — [Aside 
to Lydia.] Answer, hussy ! why don't you answer ? 

Sir Anth. Then, madam, I trust that a childish 
and hasty predilection will be no bar to Jack's 
happiness. — [Aside to Captain Absolute.] — 
Zounds ! sirrah ! why don't you speak ! 

Lyd. [Aside.] I think my lover seems as little 
inclined to conversation as myself. — How strangely 
blind my aunt must be ! 

Abs. Hem ! hem ! madam — hem ! — [Attempts to 
speak, then returns to Sir Anthony.] Faith ! sir, 
I am so confounded ! — and — so — so — confused ! — 
I told you I should be so, sir — I knew it. — The — 
the — tremor of my passion entirely takes away my 
presence of mind. 

Sir Anth. But it don't take away your voice, 
fool, does it ? — Go up, and speak to her directly ! 
[Captain Absolute makes signs to Mrs. Malaprop to leave 
them together. 

Mrs. Mai. Sir Anthony, shall we leave them 
together ? — [Aside to Lydia.] Ah ! you stubborn 
little vixen ! 

Sir Anth. Not yet, ma'am, not yet ! — [Aside to 
Captain Absolute.] What the devil are you at ? 
unlock your jaws, sirrah, or — 

Abs. [Aside.] Now Heaven send she may be too 
sullen to look round ! — I must disguise my voice. 
— [Draws near Lydia, and speaks in a low hoarse 
tone.] Will not Miss Languish lend an ear to the 
mild accents of true love ? Will not — 

Sir Anth. What the deyil ails the fellow ? Why 
don't you speak out ? — not stand croaking like a 
frog in a quinsy ! 

Abs. The — the — excess of my awe, and my— 
my — my modesty, quite choke me ! 

Sir Anth. Ah ! your modesty again ? — I'll tell 
you what, Jack ; if you don't speak out directly, 
and glibly too, I shall be in such a rage ! — Mrs. 
Malaprop, I wish the lady would favour us with 
something more than a side-front. 

[Mrs. Malaprop seems to eft «fe Lydia. 

Abs. [Aside.] So all will out, I see ! — [Goes up 
to Lydia, speaks softly.] Be not surprised, my 
Lydia, suppress all surprise at present. 

Lyd. [Aside.] Heavens ! 'tis Beverley's voice ! 
Sure he can't have imposed on Sir Anthony too ! — 
[Looks round by degrees, then starts up.] Is this 
possible !— my Beverley ! — how can this be ? — my 
Beverley ? 

Abs. Ah ! 'tis all over. {Aside. 

Sir Anth. Beverley ! — the devil — Beverley ! — 
What can the girl mean ? — This is my son Jack 
Absolute. 



THE RIVALS. 



21 



Mrs. Mai. For shame, hussy ! for shame ! — 
your head runs so on that fellow, that you have him 
always in your eyes ! — beg captain Absolute's 
pardon directly. 

Lyd. I see no captain Absolute, but my loved 
Beverley ! 

Sir Anth. Zounds ! the girl's mad ! — her brain's 
turned by reading. 

Mrs. Mai. O' my conscience, I believe so ! — 
What do you mean by Beverley, hussy ? — You saw 
captain Absolute before to-day ; there he is — your 
husband that shall be. 

Lyd. With all my soul, ma'am — when I refuse 
my Beverley — 

Sir Anth. Oh ! she's as mad as Bedlam ! — or 
has this fellow being playing us a rogue's trick ! — 
Come here, sirrah, who the devil are you ? 

Abs. Faith, sir, I am not quite clear myself; 
but I'll endeavour to recollect. 

Sir Anth. Are you my son or not ? — answer for 
your mother, you dog, if you won't for me. 

Mrs. Mai. Ay, sir, who are you ? O mercy ! I 
begin to suspect ! — 

Abs. [Aside.} Ye powers of impudence, befriend 
me ! — [Aloud.] Sir Anthony, most assuredly I am 
your wife's son : and that I sincerely believe my- 
self to be yours also, I hope my duty has always 
shown. — Mrs. Malaprop, I am your most respect- 
ful admirer, and shall be proud to add affectionate 
nephew. — I need not tell my Lydia, that she sees 
her faithful Beverley, who, knowing the singular 
generosity of her temper, assumed that name and 
a station, which has proved a test of the most dis- 
interested love, which he now hopes to enjoy in 
a more elevated character. 

Lyd. So ! — there will be no elopement after all ! 

[Sullenly. 

Sir Anth. Upon my soul, Jack, thou art a very 
impudent fellow ! to do you justice, I think I never 
saw a piece of more consummate assurance ! 

Abs. Oh, you flatter me, sir, — you compliment 
— 'tis my modesty you know, sir — my modesty that 
has stood in my way. 

Sir Anth. Well, I am glad you are not the dull, 
insensible varlet you pretended to be, however !— 
I'm glad you have made a fool of your father, you 
dog — I am. So this was your penitence, your duty 
and obedience ! — I thought it was damned sudden ! 
You never heard their names before, not you ! — 
what the Languishes of Worcestershire, hey ? — 
if you could please me in the affair it was all you 
desired! — Ah! you dissembling villain ! — What! 
[Pointing to Lydia] she squints don't she 9 — a 
little red-haired girl ! — hey ? — Why, you hypocri- 
tical young rascal !— I wonder you an't ashamed 
to hold up your head ! 

Abs. 'Tis with difficulty, sir I am confused — 

very much confused, as you must perceive. 

Mrs. Mai. O Lud ! Sir Anthony !— a new light 
breaks in upon me ! — hey ! — how ! what 1 captain, 
did you write the letters then ? — What — am I to 
thank you for the elegant compilation of an old 
weather-beaten she-dragon — hey ! — O mercy ! — 
was it you that reflected on my parts of speech ? 

Abs. Dear sir ! my modesty will be overpow- 
ered at last, if you don't assist me. — I shall cer- 
tainly not be able to stand it ! 

Sir Anth. Come, come, Mrs. Malaprop, we 
must forget and forgive ; — odds life ! matters have 
taken so clever a turn all of a sudden, that I could 



find in my heart to be so good-humoured ! and 
so gallant ! hey ! Mrs. Malaprop ! 

Mrs. Mai. Well, sir Anthony, since you desire 
it, we will not anticipate the past ! — so mind, 
young people — our retrospection will be all to the 
future. 

Sir Anth. Come, we must leave them together ; 
Mrs. Malaprop, they long to fly into each other's 
arms, I warrant ! — Jack — isn't the cheek as I 
said, hey ? — and the eye, you rogue ! — and the lip 
— hey? Come, Mrs. Malaprop, we'll not disturb 
their tenderness — theirs is the time of life for hap- 
piness ! — Youth's the season made for joy — [Sings] 
— hey ! — Odds life ! I'm in such spirits, — I don't 
know what I could not do ! — Permit me, ma'am — 
[Gives his hand to Mrs. Malaprop.] Tol-de- 
rol — 'gad, I should like to have a little fooling 
myself— -Tol-de-rol ! de-rol. 
[Exit singing and handing Mrs. Malaprop. — Lydia sits 
sullenly in her chair. 

Abs. [Aside.] So much thought bodes me no 
good. — [Aloud.] So grave, Lydia ! 

Lyd. Sir ! 

Abs. [Aside.] So ! — egad ! I thought as much ! 
— that damned monosyllable has froze me ! — 
[Aloud.] What, Lydia, now that we are as happy 
in our friends' consent, as in our mutual vows — 

Lyd. Friends' consent indeed ! [Peevishly. 

Abs. Come, come, we must lay aside some of 
our romance — a little wealth and comfort may be 
endured after all. And for your fortune, the law- 
yers shall make such settlements as — 

Lyd. Lawyers ! I hate lawyers ! 

Abs. Nay, then, we will not wait for their linger- 
ing forms, but instantly procure the licence, and — 

Lyd. The licence ! — I hate licence ! 

Abs. Oh my love ! be not so unkind ! — thus let 
me entreat — [Kneeling. 

Lyd. Psha ! — what signifies kneeling, when you 
know I must have you ? 

Abs. _ [Rising.] Nay, madam, there shall be no 
constraint upon your inclinations, I promise you. 
— If I have lost your heart — I resign the rest. — 
[Aside.] 'Gad, I must try what a little spirit will 
do. 

Lyd. [Rising.] Then, sir, let me tell you, the 
interest you had there was acquired by a mean, 
unmanly imposition, and deserves the punishment 
of fraud. — What, you have been treating me like a 
child ! — humouring my romance ! and laughing, 1 
suppose, at your success ! 

Abs. You wrong me, Lydia, you wrong me — 
only hear — 

Lyd. So, while I fondly imagined we were de- 
ceiving my relations, and flattered myself that I 
should outwit and incense them all — behold my 
hopes are to be crushed at once, by my aunt's con- 
sent and approbation — and I am myself the only 
dupe at last! — [Walking about in a heat.] But 
here, sir, here is the picture — Beverley's picture ! 
[taking a miniature from her bosom] which I have 
worn, night and day, in spite of threats and en- 
treaties ! — There, sir ; [flings it to him] and be 
assured I throw the original from my heart as 
easily. 

Abs. Nay, nay, ma'am, we will not differ as to 
that. — Here, [taking out a picture] here is Miss 
Lydia Languish. — What a difference ! — ay, there 
is the heavenly assenting smile that first gave soul 
and spirit to my hopes ! — those are the lips which 



22 



THE RIVALS. 



ACT IV. 



sealed a vow, as yet scarce dry in Cupid's calendar ! 
and there the half- resentful blush, that would have 
checked the ardour of my thanks ! — Well, all that's 
past ! — all overindeed ! — There, madam — inbeauty, 
that copy is not equal to you, but in my mind its 
merit over the original, in being still the same, is 
such — that — I cannot find in my heart to part with 
it. {Puts it up again. 

Lyd. [Softening.'] ? Tis your own doing, sir — I, 
I, I suppose you are perfectly satisfied. 

Abs. O, most certainly — sure, now, this is much 
better than being in love ! — ha ! ha ! ha ! — there's 
some spirit in this ! — What signifies breaking some 
scores of solemn promises : — all that's of no con- 
sequence, you know. — To be sure people will say, | 
that miss didn't know her own mind — but never 
mind that ! Or, perhaps, they may be ill-natured | 
enough to hint, that the gentleman grew tired of j 
the lady and forsook her— but don't let that fret 
you. 

Lyd. There is no bearing his insolence. 

{Bursts into tears. 

Re-enter Mrs. Malaprop and Sir Anthonv Absolute. 

Mrs. Mai. Come, we must interrupt your bill- 
ing and cooing awhile. » 

Lyd* This is worse than your treachery and 
deceit, you base ingrate ! {Sobbing. 

Sir Anth. What the devil's the matter now ! — 
Zounds ! Mrs. Malaprop, this is the oddest billing 
and cooing I ever heard ! — but what the deuse is 
the meaning of it ? — I am quite astonished ! 

Abs. Ask the lady, sir. 

Mrs. Mai. Oh mercy ! — I'm quite analysed, 
for my part! — Why, Lydia, what is the reason of 
this ? 

Lyd. Ask the gentleman, ma'am. 

Sir Anih. Zounds i I shall be in a frenzy ! — 
Why, Jack, you are not come out to be any one else, 
are you ? 

Mrs. Mai. Ay, sir, there's no more trick, is 
there ? — you are not like Cerberus, three gentle- 
men at once, are you ? 

Abs. You'll not let me speak — I say the lady 
can account for this much better than I can. 

Lyd. Ma'am, you once commanded me never to 
think of Beverley again — there is the man — I now 
obey you : for, from this moment, I renounce him 
for ever. {Exit. 

Mrs. Mai. O mercy ! and miracles i what a turn 
here is — why sure, captain, you haven't behaved 
disrespectfully to my niece. 

Sir Anth. Ha ! ha ! ha ! — ha ! ha ! ha ! — now I 
see it. Ha! ha! ha ! — now I see it — you. have 
been too lively, Jack. 

Abs. Nay, sir, upon my word — 

Sir Anth. Come, no lying, Jack — I'm sure 'twas 
so. 

Mrs. Mai. O Lud ! sir Anthony ! — O fy, cap- 
tain ! 

Abs. Upon my soul, ma'am — 

Sir Anth. Come, no excuses, Jack ; why, your 
father, you rogue, was so before you : — the blood 
of the Absolutes was always impatient. — Ha ! ha ! 
ha ! poor little Lydia ! why, you've frightened her, 
you dog, you have. 

Abs. By all that's good, sir — 

Sir Anth. Zounds ! say no more, I tell you — 
Mrs. Malaprop shall make your peace. — You must 
make his peace, Mrs. Malaprop : — you must tell 



her 'tis Jack's way — tell her 'tis all our ways — it 
runs in the blood of our family! — Come away, 
Jack — Ha ! ha ! ha ! Mrs. Malaprop — a young 
villain ! {Pushing him out. 

Mrs. Mai. O ! sir Anthony ! — O fy, captain ! 
{Exeunt severally. 



SCENE III.— The North Parade. 
Enter Sir Lucius O'Trigger. 

Sir Luc. I wonder where this captain Absolute 
hides himself! Upon my conscience ! these officers 
are always in one's way in love affairs : — I remem- 
ber I might have married lady Dorothy Carmine, 
if it had not been for a little rogue of a major, who 
ran away with her before she could get a sight of 
me ! And I wonder too what it is the ladies can 
see in them to be so fond of them — unless it be a 
touch of the old serpent in 'em, that makes the 
little creatures be caught, like vipers, with a bit of 
red cloth. Ha ! isn't this the captain coming ?— 
faith it is ! — There is a probability of succeeding 
about that fellow, that is mighty provoking ! Who 
the devil is he talking to ? {.Steps aside, 

Enter Captain Absolute. 

Abs. [Aside.'] To what fine purpose I have been 
plotting ? a noble reward for all my schemes, upon 
my soul ! — a little gipsy ! — I did not think her 
romance could have made her so damned absurd 
either. 'Sdeath, I never was in a worse humour 
in my life ! — I could cut my own throat, or any 
other person's, with the greatest pleasure in the 
world ! 

Sir Luc. Oh, faith ! I'm in the luck of it. I 
never could have found him in a sweeter temper 
for my purpose — to be sure I'm just come in the 
nick ! Now to enter into conversation with him, 
and so quarrel genteelly. — [Goes up to Captain 
Absolute.] With regard to that matter, cap- 
tain, I must beg leave to differ in opinion with 
you. 

Abs. Upon my word, then, you must oe a very 
subtle disputant : — because, sir, I happened just 
then to be giving no opinion at all. 

Sir Luc. That's no reason. For give me leave 
to tell you, a man may think an untruth as well as 
speak one. 

Abs. Very true, sir ; but if a man never utters 
his thoughts, I should think they might stand a 
chance of escaping controversy. 

Sir Luc. Then, sir, you differ in opinion with 
me, which amounts to the same thing. 

Abs. Hark'ee, sir Lucius ; if I had not before 
known you to be a gentleman, upon my soul, I 
should not have discovered it at this interview : for 
what you can drive at, unless you mean to quarrel 
with me, I cannot conceive ! 

Sir Luc. I humbly thank you, sir, for the quick- 
ness of your apprehension. — [Bowing.] You have 
named the very thing I would be at. 

Abs. Very well, sir ; I shall certainly not balk 
your inclinations. — But I should be glad you would 
please to explain your motives. 

Sir Luc. Pray, sir, be easy ; the quarrel is a 
very pretty quarrel as it stands ; we should only 
spoil it by trying to explain it. However, your 
memory is very short, or you could not have forgot 



SCENE III. 



THE RIVALS. 



23 



an affront you passed on me within this week. — So, 
no more, our name your time and place. 

Abs. Well, sir, since you are so hent on it, the 
sooner the better ; let it be this evening— here, by 
the Spring Gardens. We shall scarcely be inter- 
rupted. 

Sir Luc. Faith ! that same interruption in affairs 
of this nature shows very great ill-breeding. — I 
don't know what's the reason, but in England, if a 
thing of this kind gets wind, people make such a 
pother, that a gentleman can never fight in peace 
and quietness. However, if it's the same to you, 
captain, I should take it as a particular kindness if 
you'd let us meet in Kwig's-Mead-Fields, as a 
little business will call me there about six o'clock, 
and I may despatch both matters at once. 

Abs. 'Tis the same to me exactly. A little 
after six, then, we will discuss this matter more 
seriously. 

Sir Luc. If you please, sir ; there will be very 

pretty small-sword light, though it won't do for a 

long shot. — So that matter's settled, and my mind's 

at ease ! [Exit. 

Enter Faulkland. 

Abs. Well met ! I was going to look for you. — 
O Faulkland ! all the demons of spite and disap- 
pointment have conspired against me ! I'm so 
vexed, that if I had not the prospect of a resource 
in being knocked o' the head by-and-by, I should 
scarce have spirits to tell you the cause. 

Faulk. What can you mean? — Has Lydia 
changed her mind? — I should have thought her 
duty and inclination would now have pointed to 
the same object. 

Abs. Ay, just as the eyes do of a person who 
squints : when her love-eye was fixed on me, 
t'other, her eye of duty, was finely obliqued : but 
when duty bid her point that the same way, off 
t'other turned on a swivel, and secured its retreat 
with a frown ! 

Faulk. But what's the resource you — 

Abs. Oh, to wind up the whole, a good-natured 
Irishman here has — [Mimicking Sir Lucius] — 
begged leave to have the pleasure of cutting my 
throat ; and I mean to indulge him — that's all. 

Faulk. Prithee, be serious ! 

Abs. 'Tis fact, upon my soul ! Sir Lucius 
O'Trigger— you know him by sight — for some 
affront, which I am sure I never intended, has 
obliged me to meet him this evening at six o'clock : 
'tis on that account I wished to see you ; you must 
go with me. 

Faulk. Nay, there must be some mistake, sure. 

j Sir Lucius shall explain himself, and I dare say 

matters may be accommodated. — But this evening, 

did you say ? I wish it had been any other 

time. 

Abs. Why ? there will be light enough : there 
will (as sir Lucius says) be very pretty small-sword 
light, though it will not do for a loDg shot. — Con- 
found his long shots ! 



Faulk. But I am myselr a good deal ruffled by 
a difference I have had with Julia. My vile tor- I 
menting temper has made me treat her so cruelly, 
that I shall not be myself till we are reconciled. 

Abs. By heavens ! Faulkland, you don't deserve 
her! 

Enter Servant, gives Faulkland a letter, and exit. 

Faulk. Oh, Jack ! this is from Julia. I dread to 
open it ! I fear it may be to take a last leave ! — 
perhaps to bid me return her letters, and restore — 
Oh, how I suffer for my folly ! 

Abs. Here, let me see. — [Takes the letter and 
opens it.] Ay, a final sentence, indeed ! — 'tis all 
over with you, faith ! 

Faulk. Nay, Jack, don't keep me in sus- ; 
pense ! 

Abs. Hear then. — [Reads.] As I am convinced \ 
that my dear Faulkla?id's own reflections have 
already upbraided him for his last unkindness to 
me, I will not add a word on the subject. 1 wish 
to speak with you as soon as possible. Yours ever 
and truly, Julia. — There's stubbornness and re- 
sentment for you ! — [Gives him the letter.'] v Why, 
man, you don't seem one whit the happier at this ! 

Faulk. O yes, I am ; but — but — 

Abs. Confound your buts ! you never hear any- j 
thing that would make another man bless himself, j 
but you immediately damn it with a but ! 

Faulk. Now, Jack, as you are my friend, own 
honestly — don't you think there is something for- ; 
ward, something indelicate, in this haste to forgive? 
Women should never sue for reconciliation : that 
should always come from us. They should retain 
their coldness till wooed to kindness ; and their 
pardon, like their love, should " not unsought be 
won." 

Abs. I have not patience to listen to you ! 
thou'rt incorrigible ! so say no more on the sub- 
ject. I must go to settle a few matters. Let me 
see you before six, remember, at my lodgings. A 
poor industrious devil like me, who have toiled, 
and drudged, and plotted to gain my ends, and am 
at last disappointed by other people's folby, may in 
pity be allowed to swear and grumble a little ; but 
a captious sceptic in love, a slave to fretfulness and 
whim, who has no difficulties but of his own creat- 
ing, is a subject more fit for ridicule than com- 
passion ! [Exit. 

Faulk. I feel his reproaches ; yet I would not 
change this too exquisite nicety for the gross con- 
tent with which he tramples on the thorns of love ! 
His engaging me in this duel has started an idea 
in my head, which I will instantly pursue. I'll use 
it as the touchstone of Julia's sincerity and disin- 
terestedness. If her love prove pure and sterling 
ore, my name will rest on it with honour ; and 
once I've stamped it there, I lay aside my doubts 
for ever ! But if the dross of selfishness, the allay 
of pride, predominate, 'twill be best to leave her as 
a toy ft' r some less cautious fool to sigh for ! [Exit. 



24 



THE RIVALS. 



ACT V. 



SCENE I. — Julia's Dressing -Room. 

Julia discovered alone. 



Jul. How this message has alarmed me ! what 
dreadful accident can he mean ? why such charge 
to he alone ? — O Faulkland ! — how many unhappy 
moments — how many tears have you cost me ! 

Enter Faulkland. 

Jul. What means this? — why this caution, 
Faulkland ? 

Faulk. Alas ! Julia, I am come to take a long 
farewell. 

Jul. Heavens ! what do you mean ? 

Faulk. You see before yon a wretch, whose life 
is forfeited. — Nay, start not ! — the infirmity of my 
temper has drawn all this misery on me. — I left 
you fretful and passionate — an untoward accident 
drew me into a quarrel — the event is, that I must 
fly this kingdom instantly. — O Julia, had T been 
so fortunate as to have called you mine entirely, 
before this mischance had fallen on me, I should 
not so deeply dread my banishment ! 

Jul. My soul is oppressed with sorrow at the 
nature of your misfortune : had these adverse cir- 
cumstances arisen from a less fatal cause, I should 
have felt strong comfort in the thought that I could 
now chase from your bosom every doubt of the 
warm sincerity of my love. My heart has long 
kuown no other guardian — I now entrust my per- 
son to your honour — we will fly together. When 
safe from pursuit, my father's will may be fulfilled 
— and I receive a legal claim to be the partner of 
your sorrows, and tenderest comforter. Then on 
the bosom of your wedded Julia, you may lull your 
keen regret to slumbering ; while virtuous love, 
with a cherub's hand, shall smooth the brow of 
upbraiding thought, and pluck the thorn from com- 
punction. 

Faulk. O Julia ! 1 am bankrupt in gratitude ! 
but the time is so pressing, it calls on you for so 
hasty a resolution. — Would you not wish some 
hours to weigh the advantages you forego, and 
what little compensation poor Faulkland can make 
you beside his solitary love ? 

Jul. I ask not a moment. — No, Faulkland, I 
have loved you for yourself : and if I now, more 
than ever, prize the solemn engagement which so 
long has pledged us to each other, it is because it 
leaves no room for hard aspersions on my fame, 
and puts the seal of duty to an act of love. — But 
let us not linger. — Perhaps this delay — 

Faulk. 'Twill be better I should not venture 
out again till dark. — Yet am I grieved to think 
what numberless distresses will press heavy on 
your gentle disposition ! 

Jul. Perhaps your fortune may be forfeited by 
this unhappy act. — I know not whether 'tis so — 
but sure that alone can never make us unhappy. — 
The little I have will be sufficient to support us ; 
and exile never should be splendid. 

Faulk. Ay, but in such an abject state of life, 
my wounded pride perhaps may increase the na- 
tural fretfulness of my temper, till I become a rude, 
morose companion, beyond your patience to endure. 



Perhaps the recollection of a deed my conscience 
cannot justify may haunt me in such gloomy and 
unsocial fits, that I shall hate the tenderness that 
would relieve me, break from your arms, and 
quarrel with your fondness ! 

Jul. If your thoughts should assume so unhappy 
a bent, you will the more want some mild and 



affectionate spirit to watch over and console you : 
one who, by bearing^fcur infirmities with gentle- 
ness and resignation, may teach you so to bear the 
evils of your fortune. 

Faulk. Julia, I have proved you to the quick ! 
and with this useless device I throw away all my 
doubts. How shall I plead to be forgiven this last 
unworthy effect of my restless, unsatisfied disposi- 
tion ? 

Jul. Has no such disaster happened as you re- 
lated ? 

Faulk. I am ashamed to own that it was pre- 
tended ; yet in pity, Julia, do not kill me with 
resenting a fault which never can be repeated : but 
sealing, this once, my pardon, let me to-morrow, 
in the face of Heaven, receive my future guide and 
monitress, and expiate my past folly by years of 
tender adoration. •> . 

Jul. Hold, Faulkland ! — that you are free from 
a crime, which I before feared to name, Heaven 
knows how sincerely I rejoice ! These are tears 
of thankfulness for that ! But that your cruel 
doubts should have urged you to an imposition 
that has wrung my heart, gives me now a pang, 
more keen than I can express ! 

Faulk. By Heavens ! Julia — 

Jul. Yet hear me. — My father loved you, Faulk- 
land ! and you preserved the life that tender parent 
gave me ; in his presence I pledged my hand — 
joyfully pledged it — where before I had given my 
heart. When, soon after, I lost that parent, it 
seemed to me that Providence had, in Faulkland, 
shown me whither to transfer, without a pause, my 
grateful duty, as well as my affection : hence I 
have been content to bear from you what pride 
and delicacy would have forbid me from another. 
I will not upbraid you, by repeating how you have 
trifled with my sincerity. — 

Faulk. I confess it all ! yet hear— 

Jul. After such a year of trial, I might have 
flattered myself that I should not have been insulted 
with a new probation of my sincerity, as cruel as 
unnecessary ! I now see it is not in your nature 
to be content or confident in love. With this con- 
viction — I never will be yours. While I had hopes 
that my persevering attention, and unreproaching 
kindness, might in time reform your temper, I 
should have been happy to have gained a dearer 
influence over you ; but I will not furnish you with 
a licensed power to keep alive an incorrigible fault, 
at the expense of one who never would contend 
with you. 

Faulk. Nay, but, Julia, by my soul and honour, 
if after this — 

Jul. But one word more — As my faith has once 
been given to you, I never will barter it with an- 
other. — I shall pray for your happiness with the 
truest sincerity ; and the dearest blessing I can ask 



SCENE I. 



THE RIVALS. 



25 



of Heaven to send you will be to charm you from 
that unhappy temper, which alone has prevented 
the performance of our solemn engagement. All 
I request of you is, that you will yourself reflect 
upon this infirmity, and when you number up the 
many true delights it has deprived you of, let it 
not be your least regret, that it lost you the love 
of one who would have followed you in beggary 
through the world ! [Exit. 

Faulk. She's gone ! — for ever ! — There was an 
awful resolution in her manner, that rivetted me to 
my place. — O fool ! — dolt ! — barbarian ! Cursed 
as I am, with more imperfections than my fellow- 
wretches, kind Fortune senJ^heaven-gifted cherub 
to my aid, and, like a ruirMi, I have driven her 
from my side ! — I must now haste to my appoint- 
ment. Well, my mind is tuned for such a scene. 
I shall wish only to become a principal in it, and 
reverse the tale my cursed folly put me upon forg- 
ing here. — O Love ! — tormentor ! — fiend ! — whose 
influence, like the moon's, acting on men of dull 
souls, makes idiots of them, but meeting subtler 
spirits, betrays their course, and urges sensibility 
to madness ! [Exit. 

Enter Lydia and Maid. 

Maid. My mistress, ma'am, I know, was here 
just now — perhaps she is only in the next room. 

[Exit. 

Lyd. Heigh-ho ! Though he has used me so, 

this fellow runs strangely in my head. I believe 

one lecture from my grave cousin will make me 

recall him. 

Re-enter Julia. 

O Julia, I am come to you with such an appetite 
for consolation. — Lud ! child, what's the matter 
with you ? You have been crying ! — I'll be hanged 
if that Faulkland has not been tormenting you ! 

Jul. You mistake the cause of my uneasiness ! 
— Something has flurried me a little. Nothing that 
you can guess at.— [Aside."] I would not accuse 
Faulkland to a sister ! 

Lyd. Ah ! whatever vexations you may have, I 
can assure you mine surpass them. You know 
who Beverley proves to be ? 

Jul. I will now own to you, Lydia, that Mr. 
Faulkland had before informed me of the whole 
affair. Had young Absolute been the person you 
took him for, I should not have accepted your con- 
fidence on the subject, without a serious endeavour 
to counteract your caprice. 

Lyd. So, then, I see I have been deceived by 
every one ! But I don't care — I'll never have him. 

Jul. Nay, Lydia — 

Lyd. Why, is it not provoking ? when I thought 
we were coming to the prettiest distress imagina- 
ble, to find myself made a mere Smithfield bargain 
of at last ! There, had I projected one of the most 
sentimental elopements ! — so becoming a disguise ! 
— so amiable a ladder of ropes ! — Conscious moon 
— four horses — Scotch parson — with such surprise 
to Mrs. Malaprop — and such paragraphs in the 
newspapers ! — Oh, I shall die with disappoint- 
ment ! 

Jul. I don't wonder at it ! 

Lyd. Now — sad reverse ! — what have I to ex- 
pect, but, after a deal of flimsy preparation with a 
bishop's licence, and my aunt's blessing, to go sim- 
pering up to the altar ; or perhaps be cried three 
times in a country church, and have an unmannerly 



fat clerk ask the consent of every butcher in the 
parish to join John Absolute and Lydia Languish, 
spinster ! Oh, that I should live to hear myself 
called spinster ! 

Jul. Melancholy, indeed! 

Lyd. How mortifying, to remember the dear 
delicious shifts I used to be put to, to gain half a 
minute's conversation with this fellow ! How often 
have I stole forth, in the coldest night in January, 
and found him in the garden, stuck like a dripping 
statue ! There would he kneel to me in the snow, 
and sneeze and cough so pathetically ! he shivering 
with cold and I with apprehension ! and while the 
freezing blast numbed our joints, how warmly would 
he press me to pity his flame, and glow with mu- 
tual ardour ! — Ah, Julia, that was something like 
being in love. 

Jul. If I were in spirits, Lydia, I should chide 
you only by laughing heartily at you ; but it suits 
more the situation of my mind, at present, ear- 
nestly to entreat you not to let a man, who loves 
you with sincerity, suffer that unhappiness from 
your caprice, which I know too well caprice can 
inflict. 

Lyd. O Lud ! what has brought my aunt here ? 

Enter Mrs. Malaprop, Fag, and David. 

Mrs. Mai. So ! so ! here's fine work ! — here's 
fine suicide, paracide, and simulation, going on in 
the fields ! and sir Anthony not to be found to pre- 
vent the antistrophe ! 

Jul. For Heaven's sake, madam, what's the 
meaning of this ? 

Mrs. Mai. That gentleman can tell you — 'twas 
he enveloped the affair to me. 

Lyd. Do, sir, will you, inform us ? [To Fag. 

Fag. Ma'am, I should hold myself very deficient 
in every requisite that forms the man of breeding, 
if I delayed a moment to give all the information 
in my power to a lady so deeply interested in the 
affair as you are. 

Lyd. But quick ! quick, sir ! 

Fag. True, ma'am, as you say, one should be 
quick in divulging matters of this nature ; for 
should we be tedious, perhaps while we are flou- 
rishing on the subject, two or three lives may be 
lost ! 

Lyd. O patience! — Do, ma'am, for Heaven's 
sake ! tell us what is the matter ? 

Mrs. Mai. Why, murder's the matter! slaugh- 
ter's the matter ! killing's the matter! — but he can 
tell you the perpendiculars. 

Lyd Then, prithee, sir, be brief. 

Fag. Why then, ma'am, as to murder — I can- 
not take upon me to say — and as to slaughter, or 
manslaughter, that will be as the jury finds it. 

Lyd. But who, sir — who are engaged in this ? 

Fag. Faith, ma'am, one is a young gentleman 
whom I should be very sorry anything was to hap- 
pen to — a very pretty behaved gentleman ! We 
have lived much together, and always on terms. 

Lyd. But who is this ? who ! who ! who ! 

Fag. My master, ma'am — my master — I speak 
of my master. 

Lyd. Heavens ! What, captain Absolute ! 

Mrs. Mai. Oh, to be sure, you are frightened 
now ! 

Jul. But who are with him, sir ? 

Fag. As to the rest, ma'am, this gentleman can 
inform you better than I. 



26 



THE RIVALS. 



Jul. Do speak, friend. ITo David. 

Dav. Look'ee, my lady — by the mass ! there's 
mischief going on. Folks don't use to meet for 
amusement with fire-arms, firelocks, fire-engines, 
fire-screens, fire-office, and the devil knows what 
other crackers beside ! — This, my lady, I say, has 
an angry favour. 

Jul. But who is there beside captain Absolute, 
friend? 

Dav. My poor master — under favour for men- 
tioning him first. "You know me, my lady — I am 
David — and my master of course is, or was, squire 
Acres. Then comes squire Faulkland. 

Jul. Do, ma'am, let us instantly endeavour to 
prevent mischief. 

Mrs. Mai. O fy ! — it would be very inelegant 
in us : — we should only participate things. 

Dav. Ah ! do, Mrs. Aunt, save a few lives — they 
are desperately given, believe me. — Above all, 
there is that blood-thirsty Philistine, sir Lucius 
O'Trigger. 

Mrs. Mai. Sir Lucius O'Trigger ? O mercy 1 
have they drawn poor little dear sir Lucius into 
the scrape ? — Why, how you stand, girl ! you have 
no more feeling than one of the Derbyshire petre- 
factions ! 

Lyd. What are we to do, madam ? 

Mrs. Mai. Why fly with the utmost felicity, to 
be sure, to prevent mischief ! — Here, friend, you 
can show us the place ? 

Fag. If you please, ma'am, I will conduct you. 
— David, do you look for sir Anthony. [Exit David. 

Mrs. Mai. Come, girls ! this gentleman will 
exhort us. — Come, sir, you're our envoy — lead the 
way, and we'll precede. 

Fag. Not a step before the ladies for the world ! 

Mrs. Mai. You're sure you know the spot ? 

Fag. I think I can find it, ma'am ; and one good 
thing is, we shall hear the report of the pistols as 
we draw near, so we can't well miss them ; — never 
fear, ma'am, never fear. {.Exeunt, he talking. 



SCENE IL^The South Parade. 

Enter Captain Absolute, putting his sword under his 
great-coat. 

Abs. A sword seen in the streets of Bath would 
raise as great an alarm as a mad dog. — How pro- 
voking this is in Faulkland ! — never punctual ! I 
shall be obliged to go without him at last. — Oh, 
the devil ! here's sir Anthony ! how shall I 
escape him ? 

[.Muffles up Ms face, and takes a circle to go off. 

Enter Sir Anthony Absolute. 

Sir Anth. How one may be deceived at a little 
distance ! only that I see he don't know me, I could 
have sworn that was Jack ! — Hey ! Gad's life it 
is. — Why, Jack, what are you afraid of? hey! — 
sure I'm right. — Why Jack, Jack Absolute ! 

[Goes up to him. 

Abs. Really, sir, you have the advantage of me : 
— I don't remember ever to have had the honour 
— my name is Saunderson, at your service. 

Sir Anth. Sir, I beg your pardon — I took you 
— hey ? — why, zounds ! it is — Stay— [Looks up 
to his face."} So, so — your humble servant, Mr. 



you scoundrel, what tricks 
I came here on 



Saunderson ! Why, 
are you after now ? 

Abs. Oh, a joke, sir, a joke 1 
purpose to look for you, sir. 

Sir Anth. You did ! well, I am glad you were 
so lucky : — but what are you muffled up so for ? — 
what's this for ? — hey ? 

Abs. 'Tis cool, sir ; isn't ? — rather chilly some- 
how: — but I shall be late — I have a particular 
engagement. 

Sir Anth. Stay ! — Why, I thought you were 
looking for me ? — Pray, Jack, where is't you are 
going ? 

Abs. Going, sir ! vi 

Sir Anth. Ay, where are you going ? 

Abs. Where am I going ? 

Sir Anth. You unmannerly puppy ! 

Abs. I was going, sir, to — to — to — to Lydia — 
sir, to Lydia — to make matters up if I could ; — 
and I was looking for you, sir, to — to — 

Sir Anth. To go with you, I suppose. — Well, 
come along. 

Abs. Oh ! zounds ! no, sir, not for the world ! 
— I wished to meet with you, sir, — to — to — to — 
You find it cool, I'm sure, sir — you'd better not 
stay out. 

Sir Anth. Cool ! — not at all — Well, Jack— and 
what will you say to Lydia ? 

Abs. Oh, sir, beg her pardon, humour her — 
promise and vow: — but I detain you, sir — con- 
sider the cold air on your gout. 

Sir Anth. Oh, not at all ! not at all ! I'm in 
no hurry. — Ah ! Jack, you youngsters, when once 
you are wounded here — [Putting his hand to Cap- 
tain Absolute's breast.} Hey ! what the deuse 
have you got here ? 

Abs. Nothing, sir — nothing. 

Sir Anth. What's this ? — here's something 
damned hard. 

Abs. Oh, trinkets, sir ! trinkets ! — a bauble for 
Lydia ! 

Sir Anth. Nay, let me see your taste. — [Pulls 
his coat open, the sword falls.'] Trinkets ! — a 
bauble for Lydia ! — Zounds ! sirrah, you are not 
going to cut her throat, are you ? 

Abs. Ha! ha! ha! — I thought it would divert 
you, sir, though I didn't mean to tell you till after- 
wards. 

Sir Anth. You didn't 1 ? — Yes, this is a very 
diverting trinket, truly ! 

Abs. Sir, I'll explain to you. — You know, sir, 
Lydia is romantic, devilish romantic, and very 
absurd of course : now, sir, I intend, if she 
refuses to forgive me, to unsheath this sword, 
and swear — I'll fall upon its point, and expire at 
her feet ! 

Sir Anth. Fall upon a fiddlestick's end ! — 
why, I suppose it is the very thing that would 
please her. — Get along, you fool ! 

Abs. Well, sir, you shall hear of my success — 
you shall hear. — O Lydia !— forgive me, or this 
pointed steel — says I. 

Sir Anth. O booby ! stab away, and welcome 

— says she. — Get along ! — and damn your trinkets ! 

[Exit Captain Absolutf. 

Enter David, running. 

Dav. Stop him ! stop him ! Murder ! Thief ! 
Fire ! — Stop fire ! Stop fire !— O sir Anthony — 
call ! call ! bid 'm stop ! Murder ! Fire ! 



SCENE III. 



THE RIVALS. 



Sir Anth. Fire! Murder! where? 

Dav. Oons! he's out of sight ! and I'm out of 
breath ! for my part ! O sir Anthony, why didn't 
you stop him ? why didn't you stop him ? 

Sir Anth. Zounds ! the fellow's mad ! — Stop 
whom ? stop Jack ? 

Dav. Ay, the captain, sir ! — there's murder and 
slaughter — 

Sir Anth. Murder ! 

Dav. Ay, please you, sir Anthony, there's all 
kinds of murder, all sorts of slaughter to be seen 
in the fields : there's fighting going on, sir — bloody 
sword-and-gun fighting ! 

Sir Anth. Who are going to fight, dunce ? 

Dav. Everybody that I know of, sir Anthony : 
— everybody is going to fight, my poor master, 
sir Lucius O' Trigger, your son, the captain — 

Sir Anth. Oh, the dog ! I see his tricks. — Do 
you know the place ? 

Dav. King's-Mead-Fields. 

Sir Anth. You know the way? 

Dav. Not an inch; but I'll call the mayor — 
aldermen — constables — churchwardens — and bea- 
dles — we can't be too many to part them. 

Sir Anth. Come along — give me your shoulder ! 
we'll get assistance as we go — the lying villain ! — 
Well, I shall be in such a frenzy ! — So — this was 
the history of his trinkets ! I'll bauble him ! 

{Exeunt. 



SCENE III.— King's-Mead-Fields. 

Enter Sir Lucius O'Trigger and Acres, with pistols. 

Acres. By my valour ! then, sir Lucius, forty 
yards is a good distance. Odds levels and aims ! 
— I say it is a good distance. 

Sir Luc. Is it for muskets or small field-pieces ? 
upon my conscience, Mr. Acres, you must leave 
those things to me. — Stay now — I'll show you. — 
[Measures paces along the stage.} There now, 
that is a very pretty distance — a pretty gentleman's 
distance. 

Acres. Zounds ! we might as well fight in a 
sentry-box 1 I tell you, sir Lucius, the farther he 
is off, the cooler I shall take my aim. 

Sir Luc. Faith ! then I suppose you would aim 
at him best of all if he was out of sight .' 

Sir Luc. No, sir Lucius ; but I should think 
forty or eight-and-thirty yards — 

Sir Luc. Pho ! pho ! nonsense ! three or four 
feet between the mouths of your pistols is as good 
as a mile. 

Acres. Odds bullets, no ! — by my valour ! there 
is no merit in killing him so near : do, my dear 
sir Lucius, let me bring him down at a long shot : 
— a long shot, sir Lucius, if you love me ! 

Sir Luc. Well, the gentleman's friend and I 
must settle that. — But tell me now, Mr. Acres, in 
case of an accident, is there any little will or com- 
mission I could execute for you ? 

Acres. I am much obliged to you, sir Lucius — 
but I don't understand — 

Sir Luc. Why, you may think there's no being 
inot at without a little risk — and if an unlucky 
bullet should carry a quietus with it — I say it will 
be no time then to be bothering you about family 
matters. 

Acres. A quietus ! 

Sir Luc. For instance, now— if that should be 



the case — would you choose to be pickled and sent 
home ? or would it be the same to you to lie here 
in the Abbey ? — I'm told there is very snug lying 
in the Abbey. 

Acres. Pickled ! — Snug lying in the Abbey ! — 
Odds tremors ! sir Lucius, don't talk so ! 

Sir Luc. I suppose, Mr. Acres, you never were 
engaged in an affair of this kind before ? 

Acres. No, sir Lucius, never before. 

Sir Luc. Ah ! that's a pity ! — there's nothing 
like being used to a thing. — Pray now, how would 
you receive the gentleman's shot ? 

Acres. Odds files ! — I've practised that — there, 
sir Lucius — there ! — [Puts himself in an attitude.} 
A side-front, hey ? Odd ! I'll make myself small 
enough : I'll stand edgeways. 

Sir Luc. Now — you're quite out — for if you 
stand so when I take my aim — {Levelling at him. 

Acres. Zounds ! sir Lucius — are you sure it is 
not cocked ? 

Sir Luc. Never fear. 

Acres. But — but — you don't know — it may go 
off of its own head ! 

Sir Luc. Pho ! be easy. — Well, now if I hit 
you in the body, my bullet has a double chance — 
for if it misses a vital part of your right side — 
'twill be very hard if it don't succeed on the left ! 

Acres. A vital part ! 

Sir Luc. But, there — fix yourself so — [Placing 
him.~\ let him see the broad- side of your full 
front — there — now a ball or two may pass clean 
through your body, and never do any harm at all. 

Acres. Clean through me ! — a ball or two clean 
through me ! 

Sir Luc. Ay — may they — and it is much the 
genteelest attitude into the bargain. 

Acres. Look'ee ! sir Lucius — I'd just as lieve 
be shot in an awkward posture as a genteel one ; 
so, by my valour ! I will stand edgeways. 

Sir Luc. [Looking at his watch.'] Sure they 
don't mean to disappoint us ? — Ha ! — no faith — I 
think I see them coming. 

Acres. Hey ! — what ! — coming ! — 

Sir Luc. Ay — who are those yonder getting 
over the stile ? 

Acres. There are two of them indeed ! — well — 
let them come — hey, sir Lucius ! — we — we — we — 
we — won't run. 

Sir Luc. Run ! 

Acres. No — I say — we won't run, by my valour ! 

Sir Luc. What the devil's the matter with you ? 

Acres. Nothing — nothing — my dear friend — my 
dear sir Lucius — but I — I — I don't feel quite so 
bold, somehow, as I did. 

Sir Luc. O fy ! consider your honour. 

Acres. Ay — true — my honour. Do, sir Lucius, 
edge in a word or two every now and then about 
my honour. 

Sir Luc. Well, here they're coming. [Looking. 

Acres. Sir Lucius — if I wa'n't with you, I should 
almost think I was afraid — If my valour should 
leave me ! valour will come and go. 

Sir Luc. Then pray keep it fast, while you have 
it. 

Acres: Sir Lucius — I doubt it is going — yes — 
my valour is certainly going ! — it is sneaking off ! 
I feel it oozing out as it were at the palms of my 
hands i 

Sir Luc. Your houour ! your honour ! — Here 
they are. 



28 



THE RIVALS. 



ACT V. 



Acres. O mercy ! — now — that I was safe at 
Clod-Hall 1 or could be shot before I was aware! 

Enter Faulkland and Captain Absolute. 

Sir Luc. Gentlemen, your most obedient. — 
Ha ! what, captain Absolute ! So, I suppose, sir, 
you are come here, just like myself — to do a kind 
office, first for your friend — then to proceed to 
business on your account. 

Acres. What, Jack ! — my dear Jack ! — my dear 
friend ! 

Abs. Heark'ee, Bob, Beverley's at hand. 

Sir Luc. Well, Mr. Acres — I don't blame your 
saluting the gentleman civilly. — [ To Faulkland.] 
So, Mr. Beverley, if you'll choose your weapons, 
the captain and I will measure the ground. 

Faulk. My weapons, sir ! 

Acjres. Odds life ! sir Lucius, I'm not going to 
fight Mr. Faulkland ; these are my particular 
friends. 

Sir Luc. What, sir, did not you come here to 
fight Mr. Acres ? 

Faulk. Not I, upon my word, sir. 

Sir Luc. Well, now, that's mighty provoking ! 
But I hope, Mr. Faulkland, as there are three of 
us come on purpose for the game, you won't be 
so cantanckerous as to spoil the party by sitting 
out. 

Abs. Oh pray, Faulkland, fight to oblige sir 
Lucius. 

Faulk. Nay, if Mr. Acres is so bent on the 
matter — 

Acres. No, no, Mr. Faulkland ; I'll bear my 
disappointment like a Christian. — Look'ee, sir 
Lucius, there's no occasion at all for me to fight ; 
and if it is the same to you, I'd as lieve let it 
alone. 

Sir Luc. Observe me, Mr. Acres — I must not be 
trifled with. You have certainly challenged some- 
body, and you came here to fight him. Now, if 
that gentleman is willing to represent him, I can't 
see, for my soul, why it isn't just the same thing. 

Acres. Why no, sir Lucius ; I tell you, 'tis one 
Beverley I've challenged ; a fellow, you see, that 
dare not show his face ! If he were here, I'd 
make him give up his pretensions directly ! 

Abs. Hold, Bob, let me set you right ; there is 
no such man as Beverley in the case. The person 
who assumed that name is before you ; and as his 
pretensions are the same in both characters, he is 
ready to support them in whatever way you please. 

Sir Luc. Well, this is lucky ! Now you have 
an opportunity — 

Acres. What, quarrel with my dear friend Jack 
Absolute ? not if he were fifty Beverleys ! Zounds ! 
sir Lucius, you would not have me so unnatural. 

Sir Luc. Upon my conscience, Mr. Acres, your 
valour has oozed away with a vengeance ! 

Acres. Not in the least ! Odds backs and 
abettors ! I'll be your second with all my heart ; 
and if you should get a quietus, you may command 
me entirely. I'll get you snug lying in the Abbey 
here ; or pickle you, and send you over to Blun- 
derbuss-hall, or anything of the kind, with the 
greatest pleasure. 

Sir Luc. Pho ! pho ! you are little better than 
a coward. 

Acres. Mind, gentlemen, he calls me a coward ; 
coward was the word, by my valour ! 

Sir Luc. Well, sir ? 



Acres. Look'ee, sir Lucius, 'tisn't that I mind 
the word coward ; coward may be said in joke. 
But if you had called me a poltroon, odds daggers 
and balls — 

Sir Luc. Well, sir ? 

Acres. I should have thought you a very ill- 
bred man. 

Sir Luc. Pho ! you are beneath my notice. 

Abs. Nay, sir Lucius, you can't have a better 
second than my friend Acres. He is a most de- 
termined dog — called in the country, Fighting 
Bob. He generally kills a man a week — don't 
you, Bob ? 

Acres. Ay — at home ! 

Sir Luc. Well then, captain, 'tis we must begin 
— so come out, my little counsellor — [Draws his 
sword] and ask the gentleman, whether he will 
resign the lady, without forcing you to proceed 
against him ? 

Abs. Come on then, sir ; — [Draws'] since you 
won't let it be an amicable suit, here's my reply. 

Enter Sir Anthony Absolute, David, Mrs. Malaprop, 
Lydia, and Julia. 

Dav. Knock 'em all down, sweet sir Anthony ; 
knock down my master in particular ; and bind 
his hands over to their good behaviour ! 

Sir Anth. Put up, Jack, put up, or I shall be 
in a frenzy — how came you in a duel, sir ? 

Abs. Faith, sir, that gentleman can tell you bet- 
ter than I ; 'twas he called on me, and you know, 
sir, I serve his majesty. 

Sir Anth. Here's a pretty fellow ; I catch him 
going to cut a man's throat, and he tells me, he 
serves his majesty ? Zounds ! sirrah, then how 
durst you draw the king's sword against one of his 
subjects ? 

Abs. Sir, I tell you, that gentleman called me 
out, without explaining his reasons. 

Sir Anth. Gad ! sir, how came you to call my 
son out, without explaining your reasons ? 

Sir Luc. Your son, sir, insulted me in a man- 
ner which my honour could not brook. 

Sir Anth. Zounds ! Jack, how durst you insult 
the gentleman in a manner which his honour could 
not brook ? 

Mrs. Mai. Come, come, let's have no honour 
before ladies. — Captain Absolute, come here. How 
could you intimidate us v so ? Here's Lydia has 
been terrified to death for you. 

Abs. For fear I should be killed, or escape, 
ma'am ? 

Mrs. Mai. Nay, no delusions to the past — Lydia 
is convinced ; speak, child. 

Sir Luc, With your leave, ma'am, I must put 
in a word here : I believe I could interpret the 
young lady's silence. Now mark — 

Lyd. What is it you mean, sir ? 

Sir Luc. Come, come, Delia, we must be serious 
now ; this is no time for trifling. 

Lyd. 'Tis true, sir ; and your reproof bids me 
offer this gentleman my hand, and solicit the return 
of his affections. 

Abs. Oh ! my little angel, say you so ! — Sir 
Lucius, I perceive there must be some mistake 
here, with regard to the affront which you affirm 
1 have given you. I can only say, that it could 
not have been intentional. And as you must be 
convinced, that I should not fear to support a real 
injury, you shall now see that I am not ashamed 



SCENE III. 



THE RIVALS. 



29 



to atone for an inadvertency — I ask your pardon. 
But for this lady, while honoured with her appro- 
bation, I will support my claim against any man 
whatever. 

Sir Anih. Well said, Jack, and I'll stand by 
you, my boy. 

Acres. Mind, I give up all my claim ; I make 
no pretensions to anything in the world ; and if I 
can't get a wife, without fighting for her, by my 
valour ! I'll live a bachelor. 

Sir Luc. Captain, giveVme your hand : an 
affront handsomely acknowledged becomes an obli- 
gation ; and as for the lady, if she chooses to deny 
her own hand-writing, here — [Takes out letters. 

Mrs. Mai. Oh, he will dissolve my mystery! — 
Sir Lucius, perhaps there's some mistake, perhaps 
I can illuminate — 

Sir Luc. Pray, old gentlewoman, don't inter- 
fere where you have no business. — Miss Languish, 
are you my Delia, or not ? 

Lyd. Indeed, sir Lucius, I am not. 

[Walks aside with Captain Absolute. 

Mrs. Mai. Sir Lucius O'Trigger, ungrateful as 
you are, I own the soft impeachment : pardon my 
blushes, I am Delia. 

Sir Luc. You Delia ! pho ! pho ! be easy. 

Mrs. Mai. Why, thou barbarous Vandyke — 
those letters are mine ! When you are more sen- 
sible of my benignity, perhaps I may be brought 
to encourage your addresses. 

Sir Luc. Mrs. Malaprop, I am extremely sensi- 
ble of your condescension ; and whether you or 
Lucy have put this trick upon me, I am equally 
beholden to you. And to show you I am not un- 
grateful, captain Absolute, since you have taken 
that lady from me, I'll give you my Delia into the 
bargain. 

Abs. I am much obliged to you, sir Lucius ; but 
here's my friend, fighting Bob, unprovided for. 

Sir Luc. Ha, little Valour ! here, will you make 
your fortune ? 

Acres. Odds wrinkles ! no. — But give me your 
hand, Sir Lucius, forget and forgive ; but if ever I 
give you a chance of pickling me again, say Bob 
Acres is a dunce, that's all. 

Sir Anth. Come, Mrs. Malaprop, don't be cast 
down — you are in your bloom yet. 

Mrs. Mai. O sir Anthony ! men are all barba- 
rians. [All retire but Julia and Faulkland. 

Jul. [Aside.] He seems dejected and unhappy 
— not sullen : — there was some foundation, how- 
ever, for the tale he told me. O woman ! how 
true should be your judgment, when your resolution 
is so weak ! 

Faulk. Julia ! how can I sue for what I so little 
deserve ? I dare not presume — yet Hope is the 
child of penitence. 



Jul. O Faulkland! you have not been more 
I faulty in your unkind treatment of me, than I am 
now in wanting inclination to resent it. As my 
heart honestly bids me place my weakness to the 
account of love, I should be ungenerous not to 
admit the same plea for yours. 

Faulk. Now I shall be blest indeed ! 

Sir Anth. [Coming forward.] What's going 
on here ? — So you have been quarrelling too, I 
warrant ! — Come, Julia, I never interfered before ; 
but let me have a hand in the matter at last. — All 
the faults I have ever seen in my friend Faulkland 
seemed to proceed from what he calls the delicacy 
and warmth of his affection for you. — There, marry 
him directly, Julia ; you'll find he'll mend surpris- 
ingly ! [The rest come forward. 

Sir Luc. Come, now, I hope there is no dissa- 
tisfied person, but what is content ; for as I have 
been disappointed myself, it will be very hard if I 
have not the satisfaction of seeing other people 
succeed better. 

Acres. You are right, sir Lucius. — So, Jack, I 
wish you joy. — Mr. Faulkland the same. — Ladies, 
come now, to show you I'm neither vexed nor 
angry, odds tabors and pipes ! I'll order the fid- 
dles in half an hour to the New Rooms, and I 
insist on your all meeting me there. 

Sir Anth. 'Gad ! sir, I like your spirit ; and at 
night we single lads will drink a health to the 
young couples, and a husband to Mrs. Mala- 
prop. 

Faulk. Our partners are stolen from us, Jack — 
I hope to be congratulated by each other — yours 
for having checked in time the errors of an ill- 
directed imagination, which might have betrayed 
an innocent heart ; and mine for having, by her 
gentleness and candour, reformed the unhappy 
temper of one, who by it made wretched whom he 
loved most, and tortured the heart he ought to 
have adored. 

Abs. Well, Jack, we have both tasted the bit- 
ters as well as the sweets of love; with this difference 
only, that you always prepared the bitter cup for 
yourself, while I — 

Lyd, Was always obliged to me for it, hey ! 
Mr. Modesty ? — But come, no more of that — our 
happiness is now as unallayed as general. 

Jul. Then let us study to preserve it so : and 
while hope pictures to us a flattering scene of 
future bliss, let us deny its pencil those colours 
which are too bright to be lasting. — When hearts 
deserving happiness would unite their fortunes, 
virtue would crown them with an unfading garland 
of modest hurtless flowers ; but ill-judging passion 
will force the gaudier rose into the wreath, whose 
thorn offends them when its leaves are dropped ! 

[Exeunt omnes. 



30 



THE RIVALS. 



EPILOGUE, 

BY THE AUTHOR. 



SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY. 



Ladies, for you — I heard our poet say — 

He'd try to coax some moral from his play : 

u One moral's plain," cried I, "without more 

fuss ; 
Man's social happiness all rests on us : 
Through all the drama — whether damn'd or not — 
Love gilds the scene, and women guide the plot. 
From every rank obedience is our due — 
D'ye doubt ? — The world's great stage shall prove 
it true." 

The cit, well skill'd to shun domestic strife, 
Will sup abroad ; but first he'll ask his wife : 
John Trot, his friend, for once will do the same, 
But then — he'll just step home to tell his dame. 

The surly squire at noon resolves to rule, 
And half the day — Zounds ! madam is a fool ! 
Convinced at night, the vanquish'd victor says, 
Ah, Kate ! you women have such coaxing ways ! 

The jolly toper chides each tardy blade, 
Till reeling Bacchus calls on Love for aid : 
Then with each toast he sees fair bumpers swim, 
And kisses Chloe on the sparkling brim ! 

Nay, I have heard that statesmen-^great and 
wise — 
Will sometimes counsel with a lady's eyes ; 
The servile suitors watch her various face, 
She smiles preferment, or she frowns disgrace, 
Curtsies a pension here — there nods a place. 

Nor with less awe, in scenes of humbler life, 
Is view'd the mistress, or is heard the wife. 



The poorest peasant of the poorest soil, 

The child of poverty, and heir to toil, 

Early from radiant Love's impartial light 

Steals one small spark to cheer this world of night : 

Dear spark ! that oft through winter's chilling woes 

Is all the warmth his little cottage knows ! 

The wandering tar, who not for years has press'd 
The widow'd partner of his day of rest, 
On the cold deck, far from her arms removed, 
Still hums the ditty which his Susan loved ; 
And while around the cadence rude is blown, 
The boatswain whistles in a softer tone. 

The soldier, fairly proud of wounds and toil, 
Pants for the triumph of his Nancy's smile ; 
But ere the battle should he list her cries, 
The lover trembles — and the hero dies ! 
That heart, by war and honour steel'd to fear, 
Droops on a sigh, and sickens at a tear ! 

But ye more cautious, ye nice-judging few, 
Who give to beauty only beauty's due, 
Though friends to love — ye view with deep regret 
Our conquests marr'd, our triumphs incomplete, 
Till polish'd wit more lasting charms disclose, 
And judgment fix the darts which beauty throws 
In female breasts did sense and merit rule, 
The lover's mind would ask no other school ; 
Shamed into sense, the scholars of our eyes, 
Our beaux from gallantry would soon be wise ; 
Would gladly light, their homage to improve, 
The lamp of knowledge at the torch of love ! 



ST. PATRICK'S DAY; 

OR, 

THE SCHEMING LIEUTENANT. 

a jfarce. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS, 

AS ORIGINALLY ACTED AT COVENT-GARDEN THEATRE IN 1775. 



Lieutenant O'Connor . . . Mr. Clinch. 

Doctor Rosy Mr. Quick. 

Justice Credulous .... Mr. Lee Lewes. 

Serjeant Trounce .... Mr. Booth. 

Corporal Flint 



Lauretta Mrs. Car gill. 

Mrs. Bridget Credulous . . Mrs. Pitt. 



Drummer, Soldiers, Countrymen, and Servant. 
SCENE, — A Town in England. 



ACT I. 



SCENE I — Lieutenant O'Connor's Lodgings. 

Enter Serjeant Trounce, Corporal Flint, and four 
Soldiers. 

1 Sol. I say you are wrong ; we should all speak 
together, each for himself, and all at once, that we 
may be heard the better. 

2 Sol. Right, Jack, we'll argue in platoons. 

3 Sol. Ay, ay, let him have our grievances in a 
volley, and if we be to have a spokesman, there's 
the corporal is the lieutenant's countryman, and 
knows his humour. 

Flint. Let me alone for that. I served three 
years within a bit, under his honour, in the Royal 
Inniskillions, and I never will see a sweeter tem- 
pered gentleman, nor one more free with his purse. 
I put a great shamrock in his hat this morning, 
and I'll be bound for him he'll wear it, was it as 
big as Steven's Green. 

4 Sol. I say again then you talk like young- 
sters, like militia striplings : there's a discipline, 
look'ee, in all things, whereof the serjeant must be 
our guide ; he's a gentleman of words ; he under- 
stands your foreign lingo, your figures, and such- 
like auxiliaries in scoring. Confess now for a 
reckoning, whether in chalk or writing, ben't he 
your only man ! 

Flint. Why the serjeant is a scholar to be sure, 
and has the gift of reading. 

Trounce. Good soldiers, and fellow-gentlemen, 
if you make me your spokesman, you will show the 
more judgment ; and let me alone for the argu- 



ment. I'll be as loud as a drum, and point blank 
from the purpose. 

All. Agreed ! agreed ! 

Flint. Oh, fait ! here comes the lieutenant. — 
Nbw serjeant. 

Trounce. So then, to order — Put on your mu- 
tiny looks ; every man grumble a little to himself, 
and some of you hum the Deserter's March. 

Enter Lieutenant O'Connor. 

O'Con. Well, honest lads, what is it you have 
to complain of ? 

Sol. Ahem ! hem ! 

Trounce. So please your honour, the very griev- 
ance of the matter is this : — ever since your 
honour differed with Justice Credulous, our inn- 
keepers use us most scurvily. By my halbert, 
their treatment is such, that if your spirit was will- 
ing to put up with it, flesh and blood could by no 
means agree; so we humbly petition that your 
honour would make an end of the matter at once, 
by running away with the justice's daughter, or else 
get us fresh quarters — hem ! hem ! 

O'Con. Indeed ! Pray which of the houses use 
you ill ? 

1 Sol. There's the Red Lion an't half the civility 
of the old Red Lion. 

2 Sol. There's the White Horse, if he wasn't 
casehardened, ought to be ashamed to show his face. 

O'Con. Very well ; the Horse and the Lion shall 
answer for it at the quarter sessions. 

Trounce. The two Magpies are civil enough ; 



32 



ST. PATRICK'S DAY ; OR, 



but the Angel uses us like devils, and the Rising 
Sun refuses us light to go to bed by. 

O'Con. Then, upon my word, I'll have the 
Rising Sun put down, and the Angel shall give se- 
curity for his good behaviour ; but are you sure you 
do nothing to quit scores with them ? 

Flint. Nothing at all, your honour, unless now 
and then we happen to fling a cartridge into the 
kitchen fire, or put a spatterdash or so into the 
soup ; and sometimes Ned drums up and down 
stairs a little of a night. 

O'Con. Oh, all that's fair: but hark'ee, lads, 
I must have no grumbling on St. Patrick's day ; 
so here, take this, and divide it amongst you. But 
observe me now, — show yourselves men of spirit, 
and don't spend sixpence of it in drink. 

Trounce. Nay, hang it, your honour, soldiers 
should never bear malice ; we must drink St. Pa- 
trick's and your honour's health. 

All. Oh, damn malice ! St. Patrick's and his 
honour by all means. 

Flint. Come away, then, lads, and first we'll 
parade round the Market-cross, for the honour of 
king George. 

1 Sol. Thank your honour. — Come along ; St. 
Patrick, his honour, and strong beer for ever ! 

[Exeunt Soldiers. 

O'Con. Get along, you thoughtless vagabonds ! 
yet, upon my conscience, 'tis very hard these poor 
fellows should scarcely have bread from the soil 
they would die to defend. 

Enter Doctor Rosy. 

Ah, my little Doctor Rosy, my Galen a-bridge, 
what's the news ? 

Rosy. All things are as they were, my Alexan- 
der ; the justice is as violent as ever : I felt his 
pulse on the matter again, and, thinking his rage 
began to intermit, I wanted to throw in the bark 
of good advice, but it would not do. He says you 
and your cut-throats have a plot upon his life, and 
swears he had rather see his daughter in a scarlet 
fever than in the arms of a soldier. 

CPCon. Upon my word the army is very much 
obliged to him ! Well, then, I must marry the 
girl first, and ask his consent afterwards. 

Rosy. So then, the case of her fortune is des- 
perate, hey ? 

O'Con. Oh, hang fortune! — let that take its 
chance ; there is a beauty in Lauretta's simplicity, 
so pure a bloom upon her charms. 

Rosy. So there is, so there is. You are for 
beauty as nature made her, hey ! No artificial 
graces, no cosmetic varnish, no beauty in grain, hey ! 

O'Con. Upon my word, doctor, you are right ; 
the London ladies were always too handsome for 
me ; then they are so defended, such a circumval- 
lation of hoop, with a breast- work of whalebone, 
that would turn a pistol-bullet, much less Cupid's 
arrows, — then turret on turret on top, with stores 
of concealed weapons, under pretence of black pins, 
—and above all, a standard of feathers that would 
do honour to a knight of the Bath. Upon my 
conscience, I could as soon embrace an Amazon, 
armed at all points. 

Rosy. Right, right, my Alexander ! my taste to 
a tittle. 

O'Con. Then, doctor, though I admire modesty 
in women, I like to see their faces. I am for the 
changeable rose : but with one of these quality 



Amazons, if their midnight dissipations had left 
them blood enough to raise a blush, they have not 
room enough in their cheeks to show it. To be 
sure, bashfulness is a very pretty thing ; but, in 
my mind, there is nothing on earth so impudent as 
an everlasting blush. 

Rosy. My taste, my taste ! — Well, Lauretta is 
none of these. Ah ! I never see her but she puts 
me in mind of my poor dear wife. 

O' Con. Ay, faith ; in my opinion she can't do a 
worse thing. Now he is going to bother me about an 
old hag that has been dead these six years ! [Aside. 

Rosy. Oh, poor Dolly ! I never shall see her like 
again; such an arm for a bandage — veins that 
seemed to invite the lancet. Then her skin, smooth 
and white as a gallipot ; her mouth as round and 
not larger than the mouth of a penny phial ; her 
lips conserve of roses ; and then her teeth — none 
of your sturdy fixtures — ache as they would, it was 
but a small pull, and out they came. I believe I 
have drawn half a score of her poor dear pearls. — 
[Weeps.'] But what avails her beauty? Death 
has no consideration — one must die as well as 
another. 

O'Con. [Aside.] Oh, if he begins to moralise — 
[Takes out Ms snuff-box. 

Rosy. Fair and ugly, crooked or straight, rich or 
poor — flesh is grass — flowers fade ! 

O'Con. Here, doctor, take a pinch, and keep up 
your spirits. 

Rosy. True, true, my friend ; grief can't mend 
the matter — all's for the best ; but such a woman 
was a great loss, lieutenant. 

O'Con. To be sure, for doubtless she had men- 
tal accomplishments equal to her beauty. 

Rosy. Mental accomplishments ! she would have 
stuffed an alligator, or pickled a lizard, with any 
apothecary's wife in the kingdom. Why, she could 
decipher a prescription, and invent the ingredients, 
almost as well as myself: then she was such a 
hand at making foreign waters ! — for Seltzer, Pyr- 
mont, Islington, or Chalybeate, she never had her 
equal ; and her Bath and Bristol springs exceeded 

the originals Ah, poor Dolly ! she fell a martyr 

to her own discoveries. 

O'Con. How so, pray? 

Rosy. Poor soul ! her illness was occasioned by 
her zeal in trying an improvement on the Spa-water, 
by an infusion of rum and acid. 

O'Con. Ay, ay, spirits never agree with water- 
drinkers. 

Rosy. No, no, you mistake. Rum agreed with 
her well enough ; it was not the rum that killed 
the poor dear creature, for she died of a dropsy. 
Well, she is gone never to return, and has left no 
pledge of our loves behind. No little babe, to hang 
like a label round papa's neck. Well, well, we 
are all mortal — sooner or later — flesh is grass — 
flowers fade. 

O'Con. Oh, the devil !— again ! [Aside. 

Rosy. Life's a shadow — the world a stage — we 
strut an hour. 

O'Con. Here, doctor. [Offers snuff. 

Rosy. True, true, my friend : well, high grief 
can't cure it. All's for the best, hey 1 my little 
Alexander ? 

O'Con. Right, right; an apothecary should never 
be out of spirits. But come, faith, 'tis time honest 
Humphrey should wait on the justice ; that must 
be our first scheme. 



SCENE II. 



THE SCHEMING LIEUTENANT. 



33 



Rosy. True, true ; you should be ready : the 
clothes are at my house, and I have given you such 
a character that he is impatient to have you : he 
swears you shall be his body-guard. Well, I ho- 
nour the army, or I should never do so much to 
serve you. 

O'Con. Indeed I am bound to you for ever, 
doctor ; and when once I'm possessed of my dear 
Lauretta, I will endeavour to make work for you 
as fast as possible. 

Boat/. Now you put me in mind of my poor wife 
again. 

O'Con. Ah, pray forget her a little : we shall be 
too late. 

Rosy. Poor Dolly ! 

O'Con. 'Tis past twelve. 

Rosy. Inhuman dropsy ! 

O'Con. The justice will wait. 

Rosy. Cropped in her prime ! 

O'Con. For Heaven's sake, come ! 

Rosy. Well, flesh is grass. 

O'Con. Oh, the devil ! 

Rosy. We must all die — 

O'Con. Doctor! 

Rosy. Kings, lords, and common whores — 

[Exeunt, Lieutenant O'Connor for cing Eosy off. 



SCENE II. — A Room in Justice Credulous' 
House. 

Enter Lauretta and Mrs. Bridget Credulous. 

Lau. I repeat it again, mama, officers are the 
prettiest men in the world, and Lieutenant O'Con- 
nor is the prettiest officer I ever saw. 

Mrs. Bri. For shame, Laura ! how can you 
talk so ? — or if you must have a military man, 
there's lieutenant Plow, or captain Haycock, or 
major Dray, the brewer, are all your admirers ; 
and though they are peaceable, good kind of men, 
they have as large cockades, and become scarlet as 
well as the fighting folks. 

Lau. Psha ! you know, mama, I hate militia 
officers ; a set of dunghill cocks with spurs on — 
heroes scratched off a church door — clowns in 
military masquerade, wearing the dress without 
supporting the character. No, give me the bold 
upright youth, who makes love to-day, and bis 
head shot off to-morrow. Dear ! to think how the 
sweet fellows sleep on the ground, and fight in silk 
stockings and lace ruffles. 

Mrs. Bri. Oh, barbarous ! to want a husband 
that may wed you to-day, and be sent the Lord 
knows where before night ; then in a twelvemonth 
perhaps to have him come like a Colossus, with 
one leg at New York and the other at Chelsea 
Hospital. 

Lau. Then I'll be his crutch, mama. 

Mrs. Bri. No, give me a husband that knows 
where his limbs are, though he want the use of 
them. — And if he should take you with him, to 
sleep in a baggage-cart, and stroll about the camp 
like a gipsy, with a knapsack and two children at 
your back ; — then, by way of entertainment in the 
evening, to make a party with the Serjeant's wife 
to drink bohea tea, and pJayat all-fours on a drum- 
head : — 'tis a precious life, to be sure ! 

Lau. Nay, mama, you shouldn't be against 
my lieutenant, for I heard him say you were 



the best natured and best looking woman in the 
world. 

Mrs. Bri. Why, child, I never said but that 
lieutenant O'Connor was a very well-'bred and dis- 
cerning young man ; 'tis your papa is so violent 
against him. 

Lau. Why, cousin Sophy married an officer. 

Mrs. Bri. Ay, Laury, an officer in the militia. 

Lau. No, indeed, mama, a marching regiment. 

Mas. Bri. No, child, I tell you he was major of 
militia. 

Lau. Indeed, mama, it wasn't. 

Enter Justice Credulous. 

Just. Bridget, my love, I have had a message. 

Lau. It was cousin Sophy told me so. 

Just. I have had a message, love — 

Mrs. Bri. No, child, she would say no such 
thing. 

Just. A message, I say. 

Lau. How could he be in the militia, when he 
was ordered abroad ? 

Mrs. Bri. Ay, girl, hold your tongue ! — Well, 
my dear. 

Just. I have had a message from doctor Rosy. 

Mrs. Bri. He ordered abroad ! He went abroad 
for his health. 

Just. Why, Bridget !— 

Mrs. Bri. Well, deary. — Now hold your tongue, 
miss. 

Just. A message from Dr. Rosy, and doctor 
Rosy says — 

Lau. I'm sure, mama, his regimentals — 

Just. Damn his regimentals !— Why don't you 
listen ? 

Mrs. Bri. Ay, girl, how durst you interrupt 
your papa ? 

Lau. Well, papa. 

Just. Doctor Rosy says he'll bring — 

Lau. Were blue turned up with red, mama. 

Just. Laury !— says he will bring the young 
man — 

Mrs. Bri. Red ! yellow, if you please, miss. 

Just. Bridget ! — the young man that is to be 
hired — 

Mrs. Bri. Besides, miss, it is very unbecoming 
in you to want to have the last word with your 
mama ; you should know — 

Just. Why, zounds ! will you hear me or no ? 

Mrs. Bri. I am listening, my love — I am listen- 
ing ! — But what signifies my silence, what good is 
my not speaking a word, if this girl will interrupt 
and let nobody speak but herself? — Ay, 1 don't 
wonder, my fife, at your impatience ; your poor 
dear lips quiver to speak ; but I suppose she'll run 
on, and not let you put in a word. — You may very 
well be angry ; there is nothing sure so provoking 
as a chattering, talking — 

Lau. Nay, Pm sure, mama, it is you will not 
let papa speak now. 

Mrs. Bri. Why, you little provoking minx ! — 

Just. Get out of the room directly, both of you 
— get out ! 

Mrs. Bri. Ay, go, girl. 

Just. Go, Bridget ! you are worse than she, you 
old hag ! I wish you were both up to the neck in 
the canal, to argue there till I took you out. 



Enter Servant. 
Ser. Doctor Rosy, sir. 
Just. Show him up. 



[Exit Servant, 



34 



ST. PATRICK'S DAY; OR, 



ACT II, 



Lau. Then you own, mama, it was a marching 
regiment ? 

Mrs. Bri. You're an obstinate fool, I tell you ; 
for if that had been the case — 

Just. You won't go ? 

Mrs. Bri. We are going, Mr. Surly ! — If that 
had been the case, I say, how could — 

Lau. Nay, mama, one proof — 

Mrs. Bri. How could major — 

Lau. And a full proof — 

[Justice Credulous drives them off. 

Just. There they go, ding dong in for the day ! 
Good lack ! a fluent tongue is the only thing a 
mother don't like her daughter to resemble her in. 

Enter Doctor Rosy. 
Well, doctor, where's the lad — where's Trusty ? 

Rosy. At hand ; he'll be here in a minute, I'll 
answer for't. He's such a one as you an't met with, 
brave as a lion, gentle as a saline draught. 

Just. Ah, he comes in the place of a rogue, a dog 
that was corrupted by the lieutenant. But this is 
a sturdy fellow, is he, doctor ? 

Rosy. As Hercules ; and the best back-sword in 
the country. Egad, he'll make the red-coats keep 
their distance. 

Just. O the villains ! this is St. Patrick's Day, 
and the rascals have been parading my house all 
the morning. I know they have a design upon me ; 
but I have taken all precautions : I have magazines 
of arms, and if this fellow does but prove faithful, 
I shall be more at ease. 

Rosy. Doubtless he'll be a comfort to you. 

Re-enter Servant. 

Ser. There is a man below, sir, inquires for 
doctor Rosy. 

Rosy.. Show him up. 

Just. Hold ! a little caution — How does he look ? 

Ser. A country-looking fellow, your worship. 

Just. Oh, well, well, for doctor Rosy; these 
rascals try all ways to get in here. 

Ser. Yes, please your worship ; there was one 
here this morning wanted to speak to you : he said 
his name was corporal Breakbones. 

Just. Corporal Breakbones ! 

Ser. And drummer Crackskull came again. 

Just. Ay ! did you ever hear of such a damned 
confounded crew ? — Well, show the lad in here ! 

[Exit Servant. 

Rosy. Ay, he'll be your porter ; he'll give the 
rogues an answer ! 

Enter Lieutenant O'Connor, disguised. 
Just. So, a tall — Efacks ! what! has lost an eye ? 
Rosy. Only a bruise he got in taking seven or 
eight highwaymen. 



Just. He has a damned wicked leer somehow 
with the other. 

Rosy. Oh, no, he's bashful — a sheepish look — 

Just. Well, my lad, what's your name ? 

O'Con. Humphrey Hum. 

Just. Hum — I don't like Hum ! 

O'Con. But I be mostly called honest Hum- 
phrey— 

Rosy. There, I told you so ! of noted honesty. 

Just. Well, honest Humphrey, the doctor has 
told you my terms, and you are willing to serve, 
hey ? 

O'Con. And please your worship, I shall be well 
content. 

Just. Well, then, hark ye, honest Humphrey — 
you are sure now you will never be a rogue — never 
take a bribe, hey, honest Humphrey ? 

O'Con. A bribe ! what's that? 

Just. A very ignorant fellow indeed ! 

Rosy. His worship hopes you will never part 
with your honesty for money. 

O'Con. Noa, noa. 

Just. Well said, Humphrey ! — My chief business 
with you is to watch the motions of a rake-helly 
fellow here, one lieutenant O'Connor. 

Rosy. Ay, you don't value the soldiers, do you, 
Humphrey ? 

O'Con. Not I ; they are but zwaggerers, and 
you'll see they'll be as much afraid of me as they 
would of their captain. 

Just. And i'faith, Humphrey, you have a pretty 
cudgel there ! 

O'Con. Ay, the zwitch is better than nothing, 
but I should be glad of a stouter : ha' you got such 
a thing in the house as an old coach-pole, or a spare 
bed-post ? 

Just. Oons ! what a dragon it is ! — Well, Hum- 
phrey, come with me. — I'll just show him to 
Bridget, doctor, and we'll agree. — Come along, 
honest Humphrey. [.Exit. 

O'Con. My dear doctor, now remember to bring 
the justice presently to the walk : I have a scheme 
to get into his confidence at once. 

Rosy. I will, I will. [They shake hands. 

Re-enter Justice Credulous. 

Just. Why, honest Humphrey, hey ! what the 
devil are you at ? 

Rosy. I was just giving him a little advice.— 
Well, I must go for the present. Good morning 
to your worship — you need not fear the lieutenant 
while he is in your house. 

Just. Well, get in, Humphrey. Good morning 
to you, doctor. — [Exit Doctor Rosy.] Come along, 
Humphrey. — Now I think I am a match for the 
lieutenant and all his gang. [Exeunt. 



ACT II. 



SCENE I.— A Street. 



Enter Serjeant Trounce, Drummer, and Soldiers. 

Trounce. Come, silence your drum — there is no 
valour stirring to-day. I thought St. Patrick 
would have given us a recruit or two to-day. 

Sol. Mark, serjeant ! 



Enter two Countrymen. 

Trounce. Oh ! these are the lads I was looking 
for ; they have the looks of gentlemen. — A'n't you 
single, my lads ? 

1 Coun. Yes, an please you, I be quite single : 
my relations be all dead, thank Heavens, more or 
less. I have but one poor mother left in the world, 
and she's an helpless woman. 



SCENE II. 



THE SCHEMING LIEUTENANT. 



35 



Trounce. Indeed ! a very extraordinary case — 
quite your own master then — the fitter to serve 
his majesty. Can you read ? 

1 Coun. Noa, I was always too lively to take to 
learning ; but John here is main clever at it. 

Trounce. So, what you're a scholar, friend ? 

2 Coun. I was born so, measter. Feyther kept 
grammar-school. 

Trounce. Lucky man ! — in a campaign or two 
put yourself down chaplain to the regiment. And 
I warrant you have read of warriors and heroes ? 

2 Coun. Yes, that I have : I have read of Jack 
the Giant-killer, and the Dragon of Wantly, and 
the — noa, I believe that's all in the hero way, 
except once about a comet. 

Trounce. Wonderful knowledge ! — Well, my 
heroes, I'll write word to the king of your good 
intentions, and meet me half an hour hence at the 
Two Magpies. 

Coun. We will, your honour, we will. 

Trounce. But stay ; for fear I shouldn't see you 
again in the crowd, clap these little bits of ribbon 
into your hats. 

1 Coun. Our hats are none of the best. 

Trounce. Well, meet me at the Magpies, and 
I'll give you money to buy new ones. 

Coun. Bless your honour ! thank your honour ! 

[Exeunt. 

Trounce. [ Winking at Soldiers.] Jack ! 

[Exeunt Soldiers. 

Enter Lieutenant O'Connor. 

So, here comes one would make a grenadier. — Stop, 
friend, will you list ? 

O'Cou. Who shall I serve under? 

Trounce. Under me, to be sure. 

O'Con. Isn't lieutenant O'Connor your officer? 

Trounce. He is, and I am commander over him. 

O'Con, What ! be your Serjeants greater than 
your captains ? 

Trounce. To be sure we are ; 'tis our business 
to keep them in order. For instance now, the 
general writes to me, Dear serjeant,or dear Trounce, 
or dear serjeant Trounce, according to his hurry, 
if your lieutenant does not demean himself accord- 
ingly, let me know. Yours, General Deluge. 

O'Con. And do you complain of him often ? 

Trounce. No, hang him, the lad is good-natured 
at bottom, so I pass over small things. But 
hark'ee, between ourselves, he is most confoundedly 
given to wenching. 

Enter Corporal Flint. 

Flint. Please your honour, the doctor is coming 
this way with his worship. — We are all ready, and 
have our cues. - [Exit. 

O'Con. Then, my dear Trounce, or my dear 
serjeant, or my dear serjeant Trounce, take your- 
self away. 

Trounce. Zounds ! the lieutenant ! — I smell of 
the black hole already. [Exit. 

Enter Justice Credulous and Doctor Rosy. 

Just. I thought I saw some of the cut-throats. 

Rosy. I fancy not ; there's no one but honest 
Humphrey. — Ha ! odds life, here come some of 
them — we'll stay by these trees, and let them pass. 

Just. Oh, the bloody-looking dogs ! 

[Walks aside ivith Doctor Rosy. 



Re-enter Corporal Flint and two Soldiers. 

Flint. Halloa, friend ! do you serve justice 
Credulous ? 

O'Con. I do. 

Flint. Are you rich ? 

O y Con. Noa. 

Flint. Nor ever will with that old stingy booby. 
Look here— take it. [Gives him a purse. 

O'Con. What must I do for this ? 

Flint. Mark me, our lieutenant is in love with 
the old rogue's daughter : help us to break his 
worship's bones, and carry off the girl, and you are 
a made man. 

O'Con. I'll see you hanged first, you pack of 
skurry villains ! [Throws away the purse. 

Flint. What, sirrah, do you mutiny ? — Lay hold 
of him. 

O'Con. Nay then, I'll try your armour for you. 

[Beats them. 

All. Oh ! oh ! — quarter ! quarter ! 

[Exeunt Corporal Flint and Soldiers. 

Just. [Coming forward.] Trim them ! trounce 
them ! break their bones, honest Humphrey ! — 
What a spirit he has ! 

Rosy. Aquafortis. 

O'Con. Betray your master ! 

Rosy. What a miracle of fidelity ! 

Just. Ay, and it shall not go unrewarded — I'll 
give him sixpence on the spot. — Here, honest 
Humphrey, there's for yourself: as for this bribe, 
[takes up the purse,] such trash is best in the 
hands of justice. — Now then, doctor, I think I may 
trust him to guard the women : while he is with 
them I may go out with safety. 

Rosy. Doubtless you may — I'll answer for the 
lieutenant's behaviour whilst honest Humphrey is 
with your daughter. 

Just. Ay, ay, she shall go nowhere without 
him. — Come along, honest Humphrey. How rare 
it is to meet with such a servant ! [Exeunt. 



SCENE 11.—^ Garden. 

Lauretta discovered. Enter Justice Credulous and 
Lieutenant O'Connor. 

Just. Why, you little truant, how durst you 
wander so far from the house without my leave ? 
Do you want to invite that scoundrel lieutenant to 
scale the walls and carry you off ? 

Lau. Lud, papa, you are so apprehensive for 
nothing. 

Just. Why, hussy — 

Lau. Well then, I can't bear to be shut up all 
day so like a nun. I am sure it is enough to make 
one wish to be run away with — and I wish I was 
run away with — I do — and I wish the lieutenant 
knew it. 

Just. You do, do you, hussy ? Well, I think 
I'll take pretty good care of you. — Here, Humph- 
rey, I leave this lady in your care. — Now you may 
walk about the garden, miss Pert ; but Humphrey 
shall go with you wherever you go. — So mind, 
honest Humphrey, I am obliged to go abroad for a 
little while; let no one but yourself come near 
her : don't be shame-faced, you booby, but keep 
close to her. — And now, miss, let your lieutenant 
or any of his crew come near you if they can. 

(Exit. 
D 2 



36 



ST. PATRICK'S DAY; OR, 



Lau. How this booby stares after him ! 

[_Siis down and sings. 

O'Con. Lauretta! 

Lau. Not so free, fellow ! [.Sings. 

O'Con. Lauretta ! look on rne. 

Lau. Not so free, fellow ! 

O'Con. No recollection ! 

Lau. Honest Humphrey, be quiet. 

O'Con. Have you forgot your faithful soldier ? 

Lau. Ah ! Oh preserve me ! 

O'Con. "lis, my soul ! your truest slave, passing 
on your father in this disguise. 

Lau. Well now, I declare this is charming — you 
are so disguised, my dear lieutenant, and you do 
look so delightfully ugly. I am sure no one will 
find you out, ha ! ha ! ha ! — You know I am under 
your protection ; papa charged you to keep close 
to me. 

O'Con. True, my angel, and thus let me fulfil — 

Lau. O pray now, dear Humphrey — 

O'Con. Nay, 'tis but what old Mittimus com- 
manded. [Offers to kiss her. 

Re-enter Justice Credulous. 

Just. Laury, my — hey ! what the devil's here ? 

Lau. Well now, one kiss, and be quiet. 

Just. Your very humble servant, honest Hum- 
phrey ! — Don't let me — pray don't let me inter- 
rupt you ! 

Lau. Lud, papa ! — Now that's so good-natured 
— indeed there's no harm. — You did not mean any 
rudeness, did you, Humphrey ? 

O'Con. No, indeed, miss; his worship knows it 
is not in me. 

Just. I know that you are a lying, canting, 
hypocritical scoundrel ; and if you don't take 
yourself out of my sight — 

Lau. Indeed, papa, now I'll tell you how it was. 
I was sometime taken with a sudden giddiness, 
and Humphrey seeing me beginning to totter, ran 
to my assistance, quite frightened, poor fellow, and 
took me in his arms. 

Just. Oh ! was that all — nothing but a little 
giddiness, hey ? 

O'Con. That's all indeed, your worship ; for 
seeing miss change colour, I ran up instantly. 

Just. Oh, 'twas very kind in you ! 

O'Con. And luckily recovered her. 

Just. A.nd who made you a doctor, you impudent 
rascal, hey ? Get out of my sight, I say, this 
instant, or by all the statutes — 

Lau. Oh, now, papa, you frighten me, and I am 
giddy again ! — Oh, help ! 

O'Con. Oh, dear lady, she'll fall ! 

[Takes her into his arms. 

Just. Zounds! what before my face — why then, 
thou miracle of impudence ! — [Lays hold of him 
and discovers him.} Mercy on me, who have we 
here ? Murder ! robbery ! fire ! rape ! gunpowder ! 
soldiers ! John ! Susan ! Bridget ! 

O'Con. Good sir, don't be alarmed ; I mean you 
no harm. 

Just. Thieves ! robbers ! soldiers ! 
- O' Con. You know my love for your daughter — 

Just. Fire ! cut-throats ! 

O'Con. And that alone — 

Just. Treason ! gunpowder ! 

Enter a Servant with a blunderbuss. 
Now, scoundrel ! let her go this instant. 
Lau. O papa, you'll kill me ! 



Just. Honest Humphrey, be advised. — Ay, 
miss, this way, if you please. 

O'Con. Nay, sir, but hear me — 

Just. I'll shoot. 

O'Con. And you'll be convinced — 

Jttst. I'll shoot. 

O'Con. How, injurious— 

Just. I'll shoot — and so your very humble ser- 
vant, honest Humphrey Hum. [Exeunt separately. 



SCENE III. — ^4 Walk. 

Enter Doctor Rosy. 
Rosy. Well, I think my friend is now in a fair 
way of succeeding. Ah ! I warrant he is full of 
hope and fear, doubt and anxiety ; truly he has 
the fever of love strong upon him : faint, peevish, 
languishing all day, with burning, restless nights. 
Ah ! just my case when I pined for my poor dear 
Dolly ! when she used to have her daily colics, that 
her little doctor be sent for. Then would I inter- 
pret the language of her pulse — declare my own 
sufferings in my receipt for her — send her a pearl 
necklace in a pill-box, or a cordial draught with an 
acrostic on the label. Well, those days are over ; 
no happiness lasting : all is vanity — now sunshine, 
now cloudy — we are, as it were, king and beggar : 
—then what avails — 

Enter Lieutenant O'Connor. 

O'Con. O doctor ! ruined and undone. 

Rosy. The pride of beauty — 

O'Con. I am discovered, and — 

Rosy. The gaudy palace — 

O'Con. The justice is — 

Rosy. The pompous wig — 

0'Co?i. Is more enraged than ever. 

Rosy. The gilded cane — 

O'Con. Why, doctor ! 

[Slapping him on'the shoulder. 

Rosy. Hey ! 

O'Con. Confound your morals ! I tell you I 
am discovered, discomfited, disappointed. 

Rosy. Indeed ! gook lack ! good lack ! to think 
of the instability of human affairs ! — Nothing cer- 
tain in this world — most deceived when most con- 
fident — fools of fortune all. v 

O'Con. My dear doctor, I want at present a 
little practical wisdom. I am resolved this instant 
to try the scheme we were going to put in execu- 
tion last week. I have the letter ready, and only 
want your assistance to recover my ground. 

Rosy. With all my heart. I'll warrant you I'll 
bear a part in it : but how the deuse were you dis- 
covered ? 

O'Con. I'll tell you as we go; there's not a 
moment to be lost. 

Rosy. Heaven send we succeed better ! — but 
there's no knowing. 

O'Con. Very true. 

Rosy. We may, and we may not. 

O'Con. Right. 

Rosy. Time must show. 

O'Con. Certainly. 

Rosy. We are but blind guessers. 

O'Con. Nothing more. 

Rosy. Thick-sighted mortals. 

O'Con. Remarkably. 



SCENE IV. 



THE SCHEMING LIEUTENANT. 



Rosy. Wandering in error. 
O'Con. Even so. 
Rosy. Futurity is dark. 
O'Con. As a cellar. 
Rosy. Men are moles. 

{Exeunt, Lieutenant O'Connor forcing out Rosy. 



SCENE IV. — A Room in Justice Credulous' 
House. 

Enter Justice Credulous, and Mrs. Bridget Credulous. 

Just. Odds life, Bridget, you are enough to 
make one mad ! I tell you he would have deceived 
a chief justice : the dog seemed as ignorant as my 
clerk, and talked of honesty as if he had been a 
churchwarden. 

Mrs. Bri. Pho ! nonsense, honesty ! — what had 
j you to do, pray, with honesty ? A fine business 
I you have made of it with your Humphrey Hum ; 
I and miss too, she must have been privy to it. 
j Lauretta, ay, you would have her called so ; but 
I for my part I never knew any good come of giving 
I girls these heathen christian names : if you bad 
i called her Deborah, or Tabitha, or Ruth, or Re- 
becca, or Joan, nothing of this had ever happened ; 
but I always knew Lauretta was a runaway name. 
Just. Psha, you're a fool ! 

Mrs. Bri. No, Mr. Credulous, it is you who are 
a fool, and no one but such a simpleton would be 
so imposed on. 

Just. Why, zounds, madam, how durst you talk 
so? If you have no respect for your husband, I 
should think unus quorum might command a little 
deference. 

Mrs. Bri. Don't tell me ! — Unus fiddlestick ! 
you ought to be ashamed to show your face at the 
sessions : you'll be a laughing-stock to the whole 
bench, and a byword with all the pig-tailed lawyers 
and bag-wigged attorneys about town. 

Just. Is this language for his majesty's repre- 
sentative ? By the statutes, it's high treason and 
petty treason, both at once ! 

Enter Servant. 

Ser. A letter for your worship. 

Just. Who brought it ? 

Ser. A soldier. 

Just. Take it away and burn it. 

Mrs. Bri. Stay ! — Now you're in such a hurry 
— it is some canting scrawl from the lieutenant, I 
suppose. — [ Takes the letter. — Exit Servant.] Let 
me see : — ay, 'tis signed O'Connor. 

Just. Well, come read it out. 

Mrs. Bri. [Reads.] Revenge is sweet. 

Just. It begins so, does it ? I'm glad of that ; 
I'll let the dog know I'm of his opinion. 

Mrs. Bri. [Reads.] And though disappointed 
of my designs upon your daughter, I have still the 
satisfaction of knowing I am revenged on her 
unnatural father ; for this morning, in your cho- 
colate, I had the pleasure to administer to you a 
dose of poison. — Mercy on us ! 

Just. No tricks, Bridget ; come, you know it 
is not so ; you know it is a he. 

Mrs. Bri. Read it yourself. 

Just. [Reads.] Pleasure to administer a dose of 
poison ! — Oh, horrible ! Cut-throat villain ! — 
Bridget ! 



Mrs. Bri. Lovee, stay, here's a postscript. — 
[Reads.] N. B. ' Tis not in the power of medicine 
to save you. 

Just. Odds my life, Bridget ! why don't you 

call for help ? I've lost my voice My brain is 

giddy — I shall burst, and no assistance. — John ! — 
Laury ! — John ! 

Mrs. Bri. You see, lovee, what you have brought 
on yourself. 

Re-enter Servant. 

Ser. Your worship ! 

Just. Stay, John ; did you perceive anything in 
my chocolate cup this morning ? 

Ser. Nothing, your worship, unless it was a 
little grounds. 

Just. What colour we/3 they ? 

Ser. Blackish, your worship. 

Just. Ay, arsenic, black arsenic ! — Why don't 
you run for doctor Rosy, you rascal ? 

Ser. Now, sir? 

Mrs. Bri. Oh, lovee, you may be sure it is in 
vain : let him run for the lawyer to witness your 
will, my life. 

Just. Zounds ! go for the doctor, you scoundrel. 
You are all confederate murderers. 

Serv. Oh, here he is, your worship. [Exit. 

Just. Now, Bridget, hold your tongue, and let 
me see if my horrid situation be apparent. 

Enter Doctor Rosy. 

Rosy. I have but just called to inform — hey ! 
bless me, what's the matter with your worship ? 

Just. There, he sees it already ! — Poison in my 
face, in capitals ! Yes, yes, I'm a sure job for the 
undertakers indeed ! 

Mrs. Bri. Oh ! oh ! alas, doctor ! 

Just. Peace, Bridget ! — Why, doctor, my dear 
old friend, do you really see any change in me ? 

Rosy. Change ! never was a man so altered : how 
came these black spots on your nose ? 

Just. Spots on my nose ! 

Rosy. And that wild stare in your right eye ! 

Just. In my right eye 1 

Rosy. Ay, and alack, alack, how you are 
swelled ! 

Just. Swelled ! 

Rosy. Ay, don't you think he is, madam ? 

Mrs. Bri. Oh, 'tis in vain to conceal it ! — In- 
deed, lovee, you are as big again as you were this 
morning. 

Just. Yes, I feel it now — I 'm poisoned ! — Doctor, 
help me, for the love of justice ! Give me life to 
see my murderer hanged. 

Rosy. What? 

Just. I'm poisoned, I say ! 

Rosy. Speak out ! 

Just. What ! can't you hear me ? 

Rosy. Your voice is so low and hollow, as it 
were, I can't hear a word you say. 

Just. I'm gone then ! — Hie jacet, many years 
one of his majesty's justices ! 

Mrs. Bri. Read, doctor ! — Ah, lovee, the will ! 
— Consider, my life, how soon you will be dead. 

Just. No, Bridget, I shall die by inches. 

Rosy. I never heard such monstrous iniquity. — 
Ob, you are gone indeed, my friend ! the mortgage 
of your little bit of clay is out, and the sexton has 
nothing to do but to close. We must all go, 
sooner or later — high and low — Death's a debt ; 
bis mandamus binds all alike — no bail, no demurrer. 



38 



ST. PATRICKS DAY. 



Just. Silence, doctor Croaker ! will you cure 
me, or will you not ? 

Rosy. Alas ! my dear friend, it is not in my 
power, but I'll certainly see justice done on your 
murderer. 

Just. I thank you, my dear friend, but I had 
rather see it myself. 

Rosy. Ay, but if you recover, the villain will 
escape. 

Mrs. Bri. Will he ? then indeed it would be a 
pity you should recover. I am so enraged against 
the villain, I can't bear the thought of his escaping 
the halter. 

Just. That's very kind in you, my dear ; but, 
if it's the same thing to you, my dear, I had as 
soon recover, notwithstanding. — What, doctor, no 
assistance ! 

Rosy. Efacks, I can do nothing, but there's 
the German quack, whom you wanted to send from 
town ; I met him at the next door, and I know he 
has antidotes for all poisons. 

Just. Fetch him, my dear friend, fetch him ! 
I'll get him a diploma if he cures me. 

Rosy. Well, there's no time to be lost ; you 
continue to swell immensely. [Exit. 

Mrs. Bri. What, my dear, will you submit to 
be cured by a quack nostrum-monger ? For my 
part, as much as I love you, I had rather follow 
you to your grave than see you owe your life to 
any but a regular-bred physician. 

Just. I'm sensible of your affection, dearest ; 
and be assured nothing consoles me in my melan- 
choly situation so much as the thoughts of leaving 
you behind, 

Re-enter Doctor Rosy with Lieutenant O'Connor disguised. 

Rosy. Great luck ; met him passing by the door. 

O'Con. Metto dowsei pulsum. 

Rosy. He desires me to feel your pulse. 

Just. Can't he speak English ? 

Rosy. Not a word. 

O'Con. Palio vivem mortem soonem. 

Rosy. He says you have not six hours to live. 

Just. O mercy ! does he know my distemper ? 

Rosy. I believe not. 

Just. Tell him 'tis black arsenic they have given me. 

Rosy, Geneable illi arsnecca. 

O'Con. Pisonatus. 

Just. What does he say ? 

Rosy. He says you are poisoned. 

Just. We know that ; but what will be the effect ? 

Rosy. Quid effectual ? 

O'Con. Diable tutellum. 

Rosy. He says you'll die presently. 

Just. Oh horrible ! What, no antidote ? 

O'Con. Curum benakere bono fullum. 

Just. What, does he say I must row in a boat 
to Fulham ? 

Rosy. He says he'll undertake to cure you for 
three thousand pounds. 

Mrs. Bri. Three thousand pounds ! three thou- 
sand halters ! — No, lovee, you shall never submit 
to such impositions : die at once, and be a customer 
to none of them. 

Just. I won't die, Bridget— I don't like death. 

Mrs. Bri. Psha ! there is nothing in it : a 
moment, and it is over. 

Just. Ay, but it leaves a numbness behind that 
lasts a plaguy long time. 

Mrs. Bri. O my dear, pray consider the will. 



Enter Lauretta. 

Lau. O my father, what is this I hear ? 

O'Con. Quiddam seomriam deos tollam rosam. 

Rosy. The doctor is astonished at the sight of 
your fair daughter. 

Just. How so ? 

O'Con. Damsellum livivum suvum rislibani. 

Rosy. He says that he has lost his heart to her, 
and that if you will give him leave to pay his 
addresses to the young lady, and promise your 
consent to the union, if he should gain her 
affections, he will on those conditions cure you 
instantly, without fee or reward. 

Just. The devil ! did he say all that in so few 
words ? What a fine language it is ! Well, I 
agree, if he can prevail on the girl. — [Aside.] And 
that I am sure he never will. 

Rosy. Greal. 

O'Con. Writhum bothum. 

Rosy. He says you must give this under your 
hand, while he writes you a miraculous receipt. 

[Both sit down to write. 

Lau. Do, mama, tell me the meaning of this. 

Mrs. Bri. Don't speak to me, girl. — Unnatural 
parent ! 

Just. There, doctor ; there's what he requires. 

Rosy. And here's your receipt : read it yourself. 

Just. Hey ? what's here ! plain English ? 

Rosy. Read it out : a wondrous nostrum, I'll 
answer for it. 

Just. [Reads.] In reading this you are cured, by 
your affectionate son-in-law, O'Connor. — Who, 
in the name of Beelzebub, sirrah, who are you ? 

O'Con. Your affectionate son-in-law, O'Connor, 
and your very humble servant, Humphrey Hum. 

Just. 'Tis false, you dog ! you are not my son- 
in-law ; for I'll be poison'd again, and you shall be 
hanged. — I'll die, sirrah, and leave Bridget my 
estate. 

Mrs. Bri. Ay, pray do, my dear, leave me your 
estate : I'm sure he deserves to be hanged. 

Just. He does, you say ! — Hark'ee, Bridget, 
you showed such a tender concern for me when 
you thought me poisoned, that for the future I am 
resolved never to take your advice again in any- 
thing. — [To Lieutenant O'Connok.] So, do you 
hear, sir, you are an Irishman and a soldier, an't you? 

O'Con. I am, sir, and proud of both. 

Just. The two things on earth I most hate ; so 
I'll tell you what — renounce your country and sell 
your commission, and I'll forgive you. 

O'Con. Hark'ee, Mr. Justice — if you were not 
the father of my Lauretta, I would pull your nose 
for asking the first, and break your bones for 
desiring the second. 

Rosy. Ay, ay, you're right. 

Just. Is he ? then I'm sure I must be wrong. — 
Here, sir, I give my daughter to you, who are the 
most impudent dog I ever saw in my life. 

O'Con. Oh, sir, say what you please ; with such 
a gift as Lauretta, every word is a compliment. 

Mrs. Bri. Well, my lovee, I think this will be 
a good subject for us to quarrel about the rest of 
our lives. 

Just. Why, truly, my dear, I think so, though 
we are seldom at a loss for that. 

Rosy. This is all as it should be. — My Alexander, 
I give you joy, and you, my little god-daughter ; 
and now my sincere wish is, that you may make just 
such a wife as my poor dear Dolly. [Exeunt .omnes. 



THE DUENNA. 

3 (Emit <©pna. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS, 



AS ORIGINALLY ACTED AT COVENT-GARDEN THEATRE IN 1775. 



Don Ferdinand Mr. Mattocks. 

Don Jerome ....... Mr. Wilson. 

Don Antonio Mr. Dubellamy. 

Don Carlos Mr. Leoni. 

Isaac Mendoza Mr. Quick. 

Father Paul ...;.. Mr. Mahon. 

Father Francis Mr. Fox. 

Father Augustine .... Mr. Baker. 



Lopez 



Mr. Wewitzer. 



Donna Louisa Mrs. Mattocks. 

Donna Clara Mrs. Cargill. 

The Duenna Mrs. Green. 



Masqueraders, Friars, Porter, Maid, and 
Servants. 



SCENE,— Seville. 



ACT I. 



SCENE I.— The Street before Don Jerome's 
House. 

Enter Lopez, with a dark lantern. 

Lop. Past three o'clock !— So ! a notable hour 
for one of my regular disposition, to be strolling 
like a bravo through the streets of Seville ! Well, 
of all services, to serve a young lover is the hardest. 
— Not that I am an enemy to love ; but my love 
and my master's differ strangely. — Don Ferdinand 
is much too gallant to eat, drink, or sleep : — now, 
my love gives me an appetite — then I am fond of 
dreaming of my mistress, and I love dearly to toast 
her. — This cannot be done without good sleep and 
good liquor : hence my partiality to a feather-bed 
and a bottle. What a pity, now, that I have not 
further time for reflections ! but my master expects 
thee, honest Lopez, to secure his retreat from 
Donna Clara's window, as I guess. — [Music with- 
out.'} Hey ! sure, I heard music ! So, so ! who 
have we here ? Oh, Don Antonio, my master's 
friend, come from the masquerade, to serenade my 
young mistress, Donna Louisa, I suppose : so ! we 
shall have the old gentleman up presently — lest he 
should miss his son, I had best lose no time in 
getting to my post. [Exit* 

Enter Don Antonio, with Masqueraders and music. 

SONG. 

Don Ant. Tell me, my lute, can thy soft strain 

So gently speak thy master's pain ? 
So softly sing, so humbly sigh, 

That, though my sleeping love shall know 

Who sings — who sighs below, 
Ilcr rosy slumbers shall not fly ? 

Thus, may some vision whisper more 

Than ever I dare speak before. 



1 Mas. Antonio, your mistress will never wake, 
while you sing so dolefully ; love, like a cradled in- 
fant, is lulled by a sad melody. 

Don Ant. I do not wish to disturb her rest. 
1 Mas. The reason is, because you know she 
does not regard you enough to appear, if you 
awaked her. 

Don Ant. Nay, then, I'll convince you. [Sings. 
The breath of morn bids hence the night, 
Unveil those beauteous eyes, my fair ; 
For till the dawn of love is there, 
I feel no day, I own no light. 

Donna Louisa — replies from a window. 
Waking, I heard thy numbers chide, 

Waking, the dawn did bless my sight ; 
'Tis Phoebus sure, that woos, I cried, 

Who speaks in song, who moves in light. 
Don Jerome— /row a window. 
What vagabonds are these, I hear, 
Fiddling, fluting, rhyming, ranting, 
Piping, scraping, whining, canting, 
Fly, scurvy minstrels, fly ! 

TRIO. 



Don. Louisa, 
Bon Ant. 
Don Jer. 



Nay, prithee, father, why so rough ? 

An humble lover 1. 
How durst you, daughter, lend an ear 
To such deceitful stuff? 
Quick, from the window, fly ! 
Don- Louisa. Adieu, Antonio ! 

Don A n t. Must you go ? 
Don. Louisa. \ We soon, perhaps, may meet again. 
Don Ant. ) For though hard fortune is our foe, 

The god of love will fight for us. 
Don Jer. Reach me the blunderbuss. 



' J- The god of love, who knows 



our pain — 



Don. Louisa. 

Don Jer. Hence, or these slugs are througn your 
brain. [Exeunt severally. 



40 



THE DUENNA. 



SCENE II.— A Piazza. 
Enter Don Ferdinand and Lopez. 

Lop. Truly, sir, I think that a little sleep once in 
a week or so — 

Don Ferd. Peace, fool ! don't mention sleep to 
me. 

Lop. No, no, sir, I don't mention your low- 
bred, vulgar, sound sleep ; but I can't help think- 
ing that a gentle slumber, or half an hour's dozing, 
if it were only for the novelty of the thing — 

Don Ferd. Peace, booby, I say! — Oh Clara, 
dear, cruel disturber of my rest ! 

Lop. And of mine too. [Aside. 

Don Ferd. 'Sdeath, to trifle with me at such a 
juncture as this ! — now to stand on punctilios ! — 
Love me ! I don't believe she ever did. 

Lop. Nor I either. [Aside. 

Don Ferd. Or is it, that her sex never know 
their desires for an hour together ? 

Lop. Ah, they know them oftener than they'll 
own them. [Aside. 

Don Fer'd. Is there, in the world, so inconstant 
a creature as Clara ? 

Lop. I could name one. [Aside* 

Don Ferd. Yes ; the tame fool, who submits to 
her caprice. 

Lop. I thought he couldn't miss it. [Aside. 

Don Ferd. Is she not capricious, teasing, tyran- 
nical, obstinate, perverse, absurd ? ay, a wilderness 
of faults and follies ; her looks are scorn, and her 
very smiles — 'Sdeath ! I wish I hadn't mentioned 
her smiles ; for she does smile such beaming love- 
liness, such fascinating brightness — Oh, death and 
madness ! I shall die if I lose her. 

Lop. Oh, those damned smiles have undone all ! 

[Aside. 
AIR, 

Bon Ferd. Could I her faults remember, 

Forgetting every charm. 
Soon would impartial reason 

The tyrant love disarm : 
But when enraged I number 

Each failing of her mind, 
Love still suggests each beauty, 

And sees— while reason's blind. 

Lop. Here comes Don Antonio, sir. 
Don Ferd. Well, go you home — I shall be there 
presently. 

Lop. Ah, those cursed smiles ! [Exit 

Enter Don Antonio. 

Don Ferd. Antonio, Lopez tells me he left you 
chanting before our door — was my father waked? 

Don Ant. Yes, yes ; he has a singular affection 
for music, so I left him roaring at his barred win- 
dow, like the print of Bajazet in the cage. And 
what brings you out so early ? 

Don Ferd. I believe I told you, that to-morrow 
was the day fixed by Don Pedro and Clara's unna- 
tural stepmother, for her to enter a convent, in 
order that her brat might possess her fortune : 
made desperate by this, I procured a key to the 
door, and bribed Clara's maid to leave it unbolted ; 
at two this morning, I entered, unperceived, and 
stole to her chamber — I found her waking and 
weeping. 

Don Ant. Happy Ferdinand ! 

Don Ferd. S'death ! hear the conclusion. — I 



was rated as the most confident ruffian, for daring 
to approach her room at that hour of night. 

Don Ant. Ay, ay, this was at first. 

Don Ferd. No such thing ! she would not hear 
a word from me, but threatened to raise her mother, 
if I did not instantly leave her. 

Don Ant. Well, but at last ?— 

Don Ferd. At last ! why I was forced to leave 
the house as I came in. 

Don Ant. And did you do nothing to offend 
her ? 

Don Ferd. Nothing, as I hope to be saved ! — I 
believe, I might snatch a dozen or two of kisses. 

Don Ant. Was that all ? well, I think, I never 
heard of such assurance ! 

Don Ferd. Zounds ! I tell you I behaved with 
the utmost respect. 

Don Ant. O Lord ! I don't mean you, but in 
her. But, hark ye, Ferdinand, did you leave your 
key with them ? 

Don Ferd. Yes ; the maid, who saw me out, 
took it from the door. 

Don Ant. Then, my life for it, her mistress 
elopes after you. 

Don Ferd. Ay, to bless my rival, perhaps. I 
am in a humour to suspect everybody. — You 
loved her once, and thought her an angel, as I do 
now. 

Don Ant. Yes, I loved her, till I found she 
wouldn't love me, and then I discovered that she 
hadn't a good feature in her face. 

AIR. 

I ne'er could any lustre see 

In eyes that would not look on me ; 

I ne'er saw nectar on a lip, 

But where my own did hope to sip. 

Has the maid who seeks my heart 

Cheeks of rose, untouch'd by art ? 

I will own the colour true, 

When yielding blushes aid their hue. 

Is her hand so soft and pure ? 
I must press it, to be sure ; 
Nor can I be certain then, 
Till it, grateful, press again. 
Must I, with attentive eye, 
"Watch her heaving bosom sigh ? 
I will do so, when I see 
That heaving bosom sigh for me. 

Besides, Ferdinand, you have full security in my 
love for your sister ; help me there, and I can never 
disturb you with Clara. 

Don Ferd. As far as I can, consistently with 
the honour of our family, you know I will ; but 
there must be no eloping. 

Don Ant. And yet, now, you would carry off 
Clara ? 

Don Ferd. Ay, that's a different case! — we never 
mean that others should act to our sisters and wives 
as we do to others'. — But, to-morrow, Clara is to 
be forced into a convent. 

Don Ant. Well, and am not I so unfortunately 
circumstanced ? To-morrow, your father forces 
Louisa to marry Isaac, the Portuguese — but come 
with me, and we'll devise something, I warrant. 

Don Ferd. I must go home. 

Don Ant. Well, adieu ! 

Don Ferd. But, Antonio, if you did not love my 
sister, you have too much honour and friendship to 
supplant me with Clara? — 



SCENE III. 



THE DUENNA. 



41 



AIR. 

Bon Ant. Friendship is the bond of reason ; 
But if beauty disapprove, 
Heaven dissolves all other treason 
In the heart that's true to love. 

The faith which to my friend I swore, 

As a civil oath I view ; 
But to the charms which I adore, 

"lis religion to be true. 

Then if to one I false must be, 
Can I doubt which to prefer — 

A breach of social faith with thee, 
Or sacrilege to love and her ? 



[Exit. 



Don Ferd. There is always a levity in Antonio's 
manner of replying to me on this subject that is 
very alarming. — 'Sdeath ? if Clara should love him 
after all ! 

SONG. 

Though cause for suspicion appears, 

Yet proofs of her love, too, are strong ; 
I'm a wretch if I'm right in my fears, 
And unworthy of bliss if I'm wrong. 
What heart-breaking torments from jealousy flow, 
Ah ! none but the jealous — the jealous can know ! 

When blest with the smiles of my fair, 

I know not how much I adore : 
Those smiles let another but share, 
And I wonder I prized them no more ! 
Then whence can I hope a relief from my woe, 
When the falser she seems, still the fonder I grow ! 

[Exit. 
— ♦ 

SCENE III. — A Room in Don Jerome's 
House. 

Enter Donna Louisa and Duenna. 

Don. Louisa. But, my dear Margaret, my 
charming Duenna, do you think we shall succeed ? 

Duen. I tell you again, I have no doubt on't ; 
but it must be instantly put to the trial. Every- 
thing is prepared in your room, and for the rest 
we must trust to fortune. 

Don. Louisa. My father's oath was, never to see 
me till I had consented to — 

Duen. 'Twas thus I overheard him say to his 
friend, Don Guzman, — i" will demand of her to- 
morrow, once for all, whether she will consent to 
marry Isaac Mendoza; if she hesitates, I will 
make a solemn oath never to see or speak to her 
till she returns to her duty. — These were his 
words. 

Don. Louisa. And on his known obstinate adhe- 
rence to what he has once said, you have formed 
this plan for my escape. — But have you secured 
my maid in our interest ? 

Duen. She is a party in the whole ; but remem- 
ber, if we succeed, you resign all right and title in 
little Isaac, the Jew, over to me. 

Don. Louisa. That I do with all my soul ; get 
him, if you can, and I shall wish you joy, most 
heartily. He is twenty times as rich as my poor 
Antonio. 

AIR. 

Thou canst not boast of fortune's store, 

My love, while me they wealthy call : 
But I was glad to find thee poor— 
For with my heart I'd give thee all. 
And then the grateful youth shall own 
I loved him for himself alone. 



But when his worth my hand shall gain, 

No word or look of mine shall show 
That I the smallest thought retain 
Of what my bounty did bestow : 

Yet still his grateful heart shall own 
I loved him for himself alone. 

Duen. I hear Don Jerome coming. — Quick, 
give me the last letter I brought you from Antonio 
— you know that is to be the ground of my dis- 
mission — I must slip out to seal it up, as unde- 
livered. [Exit. 

Enter Don Jerome and Don Ferdinand. 

Don Jer. What, I suppose you have been 
serenading too ! Eh, disturbing some peaceable 
neighbourhood with villanous catgut and lascivious 
piping ! Out on't ! you set your sister, here, a 
vile example ; but I come to tell you, madam, that 
I'll suffer no more of these midnight incantations — 
these amorous orgies, that steal the senses in the 
hearing ; as, they say, Egyptian embalmers serve 
mummies, extracting the brain through the ears* 
However, there's an end of your frolics — Isaac 
Mendoza will be here presently, and to-morrow 
you shall marry him. 

Don. Louisa. Never, while I have life ! 

Don Ferd. Indeed, sir, I wonder how you can 
think of such a man for a son-in-law. 

Don Jer. Sir, you are very kind to favour me 
with your sentiments ; and pray, what is your ob- 
jection to him ? 

Don Ferd. He is a Portuguese, in the first 
place. 

Don Jer. No such thing, boy ; he has forsworn 
his country. 

Don. Louisa. He is a Jew. 

Don Jer. Another mistake : he has been a 
Christian these six weeks. 

Don Ferd. Ay, he left his old religion for an 
estate, and has not had time to get a new one. 

Don. Louisa. But stands like a dead wall be- 
tween church and synagogue, or like the blank 
leaves between the Old and New Testament. 

Don Jer. Anything more ? 

Don Ferd. But the most remarkable part of his 
character is his passion for deceit and tricks of 
cunning. 

Don. Louisa. Though at the same time the fool 
predominates so much over the knave, that I am 
told he is generally the dupe of his own art. 

Don Ferd. True ; like an unskilful gunner, he 
usually misses his aim, and is hurt by the recoil of 
his own piece. 

Don Jer. Anything more ? 

Don. Louisa. To sum up all, he has the worst 
fault a husband can have — he's not my choice. 

Don Jer. But you are his ; and choice on one 
side is sufficient— two lovers should never meet in 
marriage — be you sour as you please, he is sweet- 
tempered; and for your good fruit, there's nothing 
like ingrafting on a crab. 

Don. Louisa. I detest him as a lover, and shall 
ten times more as a husband. 

Don Jer. I don't know that — marriage generally 
makes a great change — but, to cut the matter short, 
will you have him or not ? 

Don. Louisa. There is nothing else I could dis- 
obey you in. 

Don Jer. Do you value your father's peace ? 

Don. Louisa. So much, that I will not fasten 



42 



THE DUENNA. 



on him the regret of making an only daughter 
wretched. 

Don Jer. Very well, ma'am, then mark me — 
never more will I see or converse with you till you 
return to your duty — no reply — this and your 
chamber shall be your apartments ; I never will 
stir out without leaving you under lock and key, 
and when I'm at home no creature can approach 
you but through my library : we'll try who can be 
most obstinate. Out of my sight ! — there remain 
till you know your duty. IPushes her out. 

Don Ferd. Surely, sir, my sister's inclinations 
should be consulted in a matter of this kind, and 
some regard paid to Don Antonio, being my par- 
ticular friend. 

Don Jer. That, doubtless, is a very great re- 
commendation ! — I certainly have not paid suffi- 
cient respect to it. 

Don Ferd. There is not a man living I would 
sooner choose for a brother-in-law. 

Don Jer. Very possible : and if you happen to 
have e'er a sister, who is not at the same time a 
daughter of mine, I'm sure I shall have no objec- 
tion to the relationship ; but at present, if you 
please, we'll drop the subject. 

Don Ferd. Nay, sir, 'tis only my regard for my 
sister makes me speak. 

Don Jer. Then pray, sir, in future, let your 
regard for your father make you hold your tongue. 

Don Ferd. I have done, sir. I shall only add 
a wish that you would reflect what at our age you 
would have felt, had you been crossed in your 
affection for the mother of her you are so severe to. 

Don Jer. Why, I must confess I had a great 
affection for your mother's ducats, but that was all, 
boy. I married her for her fortune, and she took 
me in obedience to her father, and a very happy 
couple we were. "We never expected any love 
frpm one another, and so we were never disap- 
pointed. If we grumbled a little now and then, 
it was soon over, for we were never fond enough to 
quarrel ; and when the good woman died, why, 
why — I had as lieve she had lived, and I wish 
every widower in Seville could say the same. I 
shall now go and get the key of this dressing-room 
— so, good son, if you have any lecture in support 
of disobedience to give your sister, it must be 
brief ; so make the best of your time, d'ye hear ? 

[Exit. 

Don Ferd. I fear, indeed, my friend Antonio 
has little to hope for ; however, Louisa has firm- 
ness, and my father's anger will probably only 
increase her affection. — In our intercourse with the 
world, it is natural for us to dislike those who are 
innocently the cause of our distress ; but in the 
heart's attachment a woman never likes a man with 
ardour till she has suffered for his sake — \_Noise.~\ 
so ! What bustle is here ! between my father and 
the Duenna too — I'll e'en get out of the way. 

[Exit. 

Re-enter Don Jerome with a letter, pulling in Duenna. 

Don Jer. I'm astonished ! I'm thunder-struck ! 
here's treachery and conspiracy with a vengeance ! 
you, Antonio's creature, and chief manager of this 
plot for my daughter's eloping ! you, that I placed 
here as a scarecrow ? 

Duen. What ! 

Don Jer. A scarecrow — to prove a decoy-duck — 
what have you to say for yourself ? 



Duen. Well, sir, since you have forced that 
letter from me, and discovered my real sentiments, 
I scorn to renounce them. — I am Antonio's friend, 
and it was my intention that your daughter should 
have served you as all such old tyrannical sots 
should be served — I delight in the tender passions, 
and would befriend all under their influence. 

Don Jer. The tender passions ! yes, they would 
become those impenetrable features ! Why, thou 
deceitful hag ! I placed thee as a guard to the rich 
blossoms of my daughter's beauty. I thought that 
dragon's front of thine would cry aloof to the sons 
of gallantry : steel traps and spring guns seemed 
writ in every wrinkle of it. — But you shall quit my 
house this instant — the tender passions, indeed ! 
go, thou wanton sibyl, thou amorous woman of 
Endor, go ! 

Duen. You base, scurrilous, old — but I won't 
demean myself by naming what you are. — Yes, 
savage, I'll leave your den : but I suppose you 
don't mean to detain my apparel — I may have my 
things, I presume ? 

Don Jer. I took you, mistress, with your ward- 
robe on — what have you pilfered, eh ? 

Duen. Sir, I must take leave of my mistress ; 
she has valuables of mine : besides, my cardinal 
and veil are in her room. 

Don Jer. Your veil forsooth ! what, do you 
dread being gazed at ? or are you afraid of your 
complexion ? Well, go take your leave, and get 
your veil and cardinal ! so ! you quit the house 
within thesefive minutes. — In — in — quick ! — [ Exit 
Duenna.] Here was a precious plot of mischief ! — 
these are the comforts daughters bring us ! 

AIR. 

If a daughter you have, she's the plague of your life, 
No peace shall you know, though you've buried your wife I 
At twenty she "mocks at the duty you taught her— 
Oh, what a plague is an obstinate daughter ! 

Sighing and whining, 

Dying and pining, 
Oh, what a plague is an obstinate daughter I 

When scarce in their teens, they have wit to perplex us, 
With letters and lovers for ever they vex us ; 
While each still rejects the fair suitor you've brought her ; 
Oh, what a plague is an obstinate daughter ! 

Wrangling and jangling, 

Flouting and pouting, 
Oh, what a plague is an obstinate daughter ! 

Re-enter Donna Louisa, dressed as Duenna, with cardinal 
and veil, seeming to cry. 

This way, mistress, this way. — What, I warrant, a 
tender parting ; so ! tears of turpentine down those 
deal cheeks. — Ay, you may well hide youc head — j 
yes, whine till your heart breaks ; but I'll r»ot hear 
one word of excuse — so you are right to oe dumb, 
— this way, this way. {Exeunt. 

Re-enter Duenna. 

Duen. So, speed you well, sagacious Don Jerome 1 
Oh, rare effects of passion and obstinacy ! Now 
shall I try whether I can't play the fine lady as 
well as my mistress, and if I succeed, I may be 
a fine lady for the rest of my life — I'll lose no 
time to equip myself. [Exit. 



SCENE V. 



THE DUENNA. 



43 



SCENE IV, — The Court before Don Jerome's 
House. 

Enter Don Jerome and Donna Louisa. 
Don Jer. Come, mistress, there is your way — 
The world lies before you, so troop, thou anti- 
quated Eve, thou original sin ! — Hold, yonder is 
some fellow sculking ; perhaps it is Antonio — go 
to him, d'ye hear, and tell him to make you amends, 
and as he has got you turned away, tell him I say 
it is but just he should take you himself ; go. — 
[Exit Donna Lodisa.] So ! I am rid of her, 
thank Heaven ! and now I shall be able to keep 
my oath, and confine my daughter with better 
security. [Exit. 



SCENE Y.—The Piazza. 
Enter Donna Claba and Maid. 
Maid. But where, madam, is it you intend to go ? 
Bon. Clara, Anywhere to avoid the selfish vio- 
lence of my mother-in-law, and Ferdinand's inso- 
lent importunity. 

Maid. Indeed, ma'am, since we have profited 
by Don Ferdinand's key, in making our escape, I 
think we had best find him, if it were only to thank 
him. 

Don. Clara. No — he has offended me exceed- 
ingly. {.Retire. 
Enter Donna Louisa. 

Don. Louisa. So I have succeeded in being 
turned out of doors — but how shall I find Antonio ? 
I dare not inquire for him, for fear of being disco- 
vered ; I would send to my friend Clara, but that 
I doubt her prudery would condemn me. 

Maid. Then suppose, ma'am, you were to try 
if your friend Donna Louisa would not receive you. 

Don. Clara. No, her notions of filial duty are so 
severe, she would certainly betray me. 

Don. Louisa. Clara is of a cold temper, and 
would think this step of mine highly forward. 

Don. Clara. Louisa's respect for her father is so 
great, she would not credit the unkindness of 
mine. 
[Donna Louisa turns, and sees Donna Clara and Maid. 

Don. Louisa. Ha ! who are those ? sure one is 
Clara — if it be, I'll trust her. — Clara ! {Advances. 

Don. Clara. Louisa ! and in masquerade too ! 

Don. Louisa. You will be more surprised when 
I tell you, that I have run away from my father. 

Don. Clara. Surprised indeed ! and I should 
certainly chide you most horridly, only that I have 
just run away from mine. 

Don. Louisa. My dear Clara ! [Embrace. 

Don. Clara. Dear sister truant! and whither 
are you going ? 

Don. Louisa. To find the" man I love, to be sure : 
and, I presume, you would have no aversion to 
meet with my brother ? 

Don. Clara. Indeed I should : he has behaved 
so ill to me, I don't believe I shall ever forgive 
him. 

air. 

When sable night, each drooping plant restoring, 
Wept o'er the flowers her breath did cheer, 

As some sad widow o'er her babe deploring, 
Wakes its beauty with a tear ; 



When all did sleep whose weary hearts did borrow 

One hour from love and care to rest, 
Lo ! as I press'd my couch in silent sorrow, 
My lover caught me to his breast ! 
He vow'd he came to save me 
From those who would enslave me ! 
Then kneeling, 
Kisses stealing, 
Endless faith he swore ; 

But soon I chid him thence, 
For had his fond pretence 
Obtain 'd one favour then, 
And he had press'd again, 
I fear'd my treacherous heart might grant him more. 

Don. Louisa. Well, for all this, I would have 
sent him to plead his pardon, but that I would not 
yet a while have him know of my flight. And 
where do you hope to find protection ? 

Don. Clara., The lady abbess of the convent of 
St. Catharine is a relation and kind friend of mine 
— I shall be secure with her, and you had best go 
thither with me. 

Don. Louisa. No ; I am determined to find 
Antonio first ; and, as I live, here comes the very 
man I will employ to seek him for me. 

Don. Clara. Who is he? he's a strange figure ! 

Don. Louisa. Yes ; that sweet creature is the 
man whom my father has fixed on for my husband. 

Don. Clara. And will you speak to him ? are you 
mad ? 

Don. Louisa. He is the fittest man in the world 
for my purpose ; for, though I was to have married 
him to-morrow, he is the only man in Seville, who, 
I am sure, never saw me in his life. 

Don. Clara. And how do you know him ? 

Don. Louisa. He arrived but yesterday, and he 
was shown to me from the window, as he visited 
my father. 

Don. Clara. Well, I'll begone. 

Don. Louisa. Hold, my dear Clara — a thought 
has struck me : will you give me leave to borrow 
your name, as I see occasion ? 

Don. Clara. It will but disgrace you ; but use it 
as you please : I dare not stay. — {Going. ] But, 
Louisa, if you should see your brother, be sure you 
don't inform him, that I have taken refuge with 
the dame prior of the convent of St. Catharine, on 
the left-hand side of the piazza, which leads to the 
church of St. Anthony. 

Don. Louisa. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I'll be very parti- 
cular in my directions where he may not find you. 
— {Exeunt Donna Clara and Maid.] So ! my 
swain, yonder, has done admiring himself, and 
draws nearer. {Retires. 

Enter Isaac and Don Carlos. 



Isaac. [Looking in a pocket-glass.'] I tell you, 
friend Carlos, I will please myself in the habit of 
my chin. 

Don Car. But, my dear friend, how can you 
think to please a lady with such a face ? 

Isaac. Why, what's the matter with the face ? 
I think it is a very engaging face ; and, I am sure, 
a lady must have very little taste who could dis- 
like my beard. — [Sees Donna Louisa.] See now! 
I'll die if here is not a little damsel struck with it 
already. 

Don. Louisa. Signor, are you disposed to oblige 
a lady who greatly wants your assistance ? 

[ Unveils. 

Isaac. Egad, a very pretty black-eyed girl ! she 



44 



THE DUENNA. 



has certainly taken a fancy to me, Carlos. — First, 
ma'am, I must beg the favour of your name. 

Don. Louisa. [Aside.} So ! it's well I am pro- 
vided. — {Aloud.} My name, sir, is Donna Clara 
d'Almanza. 

Isaac. What? Don Guzman's daughter ? I'faith, 
1 just now heard she was missing. 

Don. Louisa. But sure, sir, you have too much 
gallantry and honour to betray me, whose fault is 
love? 

Isaac. So! a passion for me ! poor girl! — Why, 
ma'am, as for betraying you, I don't see how I 
could get anything by it ; so you may rely on my 
honour ; but as for your love, I am sorry your case 
is so desperate. 

Don. Louisa. Why so, signor ? 

Isaac. Because I am positively engaged to 
another — an't I, Carlos ? 

Don. Louisa. Nay, but hear me. 

Isaac. No, no ; what should I hear for ? It is 
impossible for me to court you in an honourable 
way; and, for anything else, if I were to comply 
now, I suppose you have some ungrateful brother, 
or cousin, who would want to cut my throat for 
my civility — so, truly, you had best go home 
again. 

Don. Louisa. [Aside.} Odious wretch ! — 
[Aloud.] But, good signor, it is Antonio d'Ercilla, 
on whose account I have eloped. 

Isaac. How! what! it is not with me, then, 
that you are in love ? 

Don. Louisa. No, indeed, it is not. 

Isaac. Then you are a forward, impertinent 
simpleton ! and I shall certainly acquaint your 
father. 

Don. Louisa. Is this your gallantry ? 

Isaac. Yet hold — Antonio d'Er.cilla, did you 
say ? egad, I may make something of this — Anto- 
nio d'Ercilla ? 

Don. Louisa. Yes ; and if ever you hope to pros- 
per in love, you will bring me to him. 

Isaac. By St. Iago and I will too ! — Carlos, this 
Antonio is one who rivals me (as I have heard) 
with Louisa — now, if I could hamper him with 
this girl, I should have the field to myself ; hey, 
Carlos ! A lucky thought, isn't it ? 

Don Car. Yes, very good — very good ! 

Isaac. Ah ! this little brain is never at a loss — 
cunning Isaac ! cunning rogue ! — Donna Clara., 
will you trust yourself a while to my friend's 
direction? 

Don. Louisa. May I rely on you, good signor ? 

Don Car. Lady, it is impossible I should deceive 
vou. 

AIR. 
Had I a heart for falsehood framed, 

I ne'er could injure you ; 
For though your tongue no promise claim 'd, 

Your charms would make me true. 



To you no soul shall bear deceit, 

No stranger offer wrong ; 
But friends in all the aged you'll meet, 

And lovers in the young. 

But when they learn that you have blest 

Another with your heart, 
They'll bid aspiring passion rest, 

And act a brother's part : 
Then, lady, dread not here deceit, 

Nor fear to suffer wrong ; 
For friends in all the aged you'll meet, 

And brothers in the young. 

Isaac. I'll conduct the lady to my lodgings, 
Carlos ; I must haste to Don Jerome. — Perhaps 
you know Louisa, ma'am. Sbe is divinely hand- 
some — isn't she ? 

Don Louisa. You must excuse me not joining 
with you. 

Isaac. Why, I have heard it on all hands. 

Don Louisa. Her father is uncommonly partial 
to her ; but I believe you will find she has rather a 
matronly air. 

Isaac. Carlos, this is all envy. — You pretty girls 
never speak well of one another. — [To Don Car- 
los.] Hark ye, find out Antonio, and I'll saddle 
him with this scrape, I warrant ! Oh, 'twas the 
luckiest thought ! — Donna Clara, your very obe- 
dient — Carlos,, to your post. 

DUET. 

Isaac. My mistress expects me, and I must go to 
her, 
Or how can I hope for a smile ? 
Don. Louisa. Soon may you return a prosperous wooer, 
But think what I suffer the while j 
Alone, and away from the man whom I 
love, 
In strangers I'm forced to confide. 
Isaac. Dear lady, my friend you may trust, and 
he'll prove 
Your servant, protector, and guide. 

AIR. 

Don Car. Gentle maid, ah ! why suspect me ? 
Let me serve thee— then reject me. 
Canst thou trust, and I deceive thee ? 
Art thou sad, and shall I grieve thee ? 
Gentle maid, ah ! why suspect me? 
Let me serve thee — then reject me- 

|TRIO. 

Don. Louisa. Never mayst thou happy be, 

If in aught thou'rt false to me. 

Isaac. Never may he happy be, 

If in aught he's false to thee. 

Don Car. Never may I happy be, 

If in aught I'm false to thee. 

Don Louisa. Never mayst thou, &c. 
Isaac. Never may he, &c. 
Don Car. Never may I, &c. 



[Exeunt. 



SCENE II. 



THE DUENNA. 



45 



ACT II. 



SCENE I.— A Library in Don Jerome's House. 
Enter Don Jeromk and Isaac. 

Don Jer. Ha ! ha ! ha ! run away from her fa- 
ther ! has she given him the slip ? Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
poor Don Guzman ! 

Isaac. Ay ; and I am to conduct her to Antonio ; 
by which means you see I shall hamper him so that 
he can give me no disturbance with your daughter — 
this is trap, isn't it ? a nice stroke of cunning, hey ? 

Don Jer. Excellent ! excellent ! yes, yes, carry 
her to him, hamper him by all means, ha! ha ! 
ha ! poor Don Guzman ! an old fool ! imposed on 
by a girl ! 

Isaac. Nay, they have the cunning of serpents, 
that's the truth on't. 

Don Jer. Psha ! they are cunning only when 
they have fools to deal with. — Why don't my girl 
play me such a trick — let her cunning overreach 
my caution, I say — hey, little Isaac ! 

Isaac. True , true ; or let me see any of the sex 
make a fool of me ! — No, no, egad ! little Solomon 
(as my aunt used to call me) understands tricking 
a little too well. 

Don Jer. Ay, but such a driveller as Don Guz- 
man! 

Isaac. And such a dupe as Antonio ! 

Don Jer. True ; sure never were seen such a 
couple of credulous simpletons ! But come, 'tis 
time you should see my daughter — you must carry 
on the siege by yourself, friend Isaac. 

Isaac. Sir, you'll introduce — 

Don Jer. No — I have sworn a solemn oath not 
to see or speak to her till she renounces her disobe- 
dience ; win her to that, and she gains a father and 
a husband at once. 

Isaac. Gad, I shall never be able to deal with 
her alone ; nothing keeps me in such awe as per- 
fect beauty — now there is something consoling and 
encouraging in ugliness. 

SONG. 

Give Isaac the nymph who no beauty can boast, 
But health and good-humour to make her his toast ; 
If straight, I don't mind whether slender or fat, 
And six feet or four — we'll ne'er quarrel for that. 

Whate'er her complexion — I vow I don't care ; 
If brown it is lasting — more pleasing if fair ; 
And though in her face I no dimples should see, 
Let her smile — and each dell is a dimple to me. 

Let her locks be the reddest that ever were seen, 
And her eyes may be e'en any colour but grten ; 
For in eyes, though so various the lustre and hue, 
I swear I've no choice — only let her have two. 

'Tis true I'd dispense with a throne on her back, 
And white teeth, I own, are genteeler than black : 
A little round chin too's a beauty, I've heard ; 
But I only desire she mayn't have a beard. 

Don Jer. You will change your note, my friend, 
when you've seen Louisa. 

Isaac. Oh, Don Jerome, the honour of your alli- 
ance — 

Don Jer. Ay, but her beauty will affect you — 
she is, though I say it, who am her father, a very 



prodigy. — There you will see features with an eye 
like mine — yes i'faith, there is a kind of wicked 
sparkling — something of a roguish brightness, that 
shows her to be my own. 

Isaac. Pretty rogue ! 

Don Jer. Then, when she smiles, you'll see a 
little dimple in one cheek only ; a beauty it is 
certainly, yet you shall not say which is prettiest, 
the cheek with the dimple, or the cheek without. 

Isaac. Pretty rogue ! 

Don Jer. Then the roses on those cheeks are 
shaded with a sort of velvet down, that gives a de- 
licacy to the glow of health. 

Isaac. Pretty rogue ! 

Don Jer. Her skin pure dimity, yet more fair, 
being spangled here and there with a golden freckle. 

Isaac. Charming pretty rogue ! pray how is the 
tone of her voice ? 

Don Jer. Remarkably pleasing — but if you could 
prevail on her to sing, you would be enchanted — 
she is a nightingale — a Virginian nightingale ! — But 
come, come ; her maid shall conduct you to her 
antechamber. 

Isaac. Well, egad, I'll pluck up resolution, and 
meet her frowns intrepidly. 

Don Jer. Ay ! woo her briskly — win her, and 
give me a proof of your address, my little So- 
lomon. 

Isaac. But hold — I expect my friend Carlos to 
call on me here. — If he comes, will you send him 
to me ? 

Don Jer. I will — Lauretta! — [Calls.] Come — 
she'll show you to the room. What ! do you droop ? 
here's a mournful face to make love with 1 

[Exeunv. 



SCENE II. — Donna Louisa's Dressing Room. 
Enter Isaac and Maid. 

Maid. Sir, my mistress will wait on you pre- 
sently. [Goes to the door. 

Isaac. When she's at leisure — don't hurry her. 
— [Exit Maid.] I wish I had ever practised a love- 
scene — I doubt I shall make a poor figure — I 
couldn't be more afraid, if I was going before the 
Inquisition. — So, the door opens — yes, she's coming 
— the very rustling of her silk has a disdainful 
sound. 

Enter Duenna, dressed as Donna Louisa. 

Now daren't I look round for the soul of me — her 
beauty will certainly strike me dumb if I do. I 
wish she'd speak first. 

Duen. Sir, I attend your pleasure. 

Isaac. [Aside.] So I the ice is broke, and a 
pretty civil beginning too ! — [Aloud.] Hem ! ma- 
dam — miss— I'm all attention. 

Duen. Nay, sir, 'tis I who should listen, and 
you propose. 

Isaac. [Aside.] Egad, this isn't so disdainful 
neither — I believe I may venture to look — no — I 
daren't — one glance of those roguish sparklers 
would fix me again. 



46 



THE DUENNA. 



Duen. You seem thoughtful, sir — let me per- 
suade you to sit down. 

Isaac. [Aside.'] So, so ; she mollifies apace — 
she's struck with my figure ! this attitude has had 
its effect. 

Duen. Come, sir, here's a chair. 

Isaac. Madam, the greatness of your goodness 
overpowers me — that a lady so lovely should deign 
to turn her beauteous eyes on me so. 

[She takes his hai*i, he turns and sees her. 

Duen. You seem surprised at my condescension. 

Isaac. Why, yes, madam, I am a little surprised 
at it. — [Aside.'] Zounds ! this can never be Louisa 
— she's as old as my mother ! 

Duen. But former prepossessions give way to 
my father's commands. 

Isaac. [Aside.] Her father ! Yes, 'tis she 
then. — Lord, Lord, how blind some parents are ! 

Duen. Signor Isaac ! 

Isaac. [Aside.] Truly, the little damsel was 
right — she has rather a matronly air, indeed ! ah ! 
'tis well my affections are fixed on her fortune, and 
not her person. 

Duen. Signor, won't you sit ? [She sits. 

Isaac. Pardon me, madam, I have scarce re- 
covered my astonishment at — your condescension, 
madam. — [Aside.] She has the devil's own dim- 
ples to be sure ! 

Duen. I do not wonder, sir, that you are sur- 
prised at my affability — I own, signor, that I was 
vastly prepossessed against you, and being teased 
by my father, I did give some encouragement to 
Antonio ; but then, sir, you were described to me 
as a quite different person. 

Isaac. Ay, and so you were to me, upon my 
soul, madam. 

Duen. But when I saw you, I was never more 
struck in my life. 

Isaac. That was just my case too, madam : I 
was struck all on a heap, for my part. 

Duen. Well, sir, I see our misapprehension has 
been mutual — you expected to find me haughty and 
averse, and I was taught to believe you a little 
black, snub-nosed fellow, without person, manners, 
or address. 

Isaac. Egad, I wish she had answered her pic- 
ture as well ! I Aside, 

Duen. But, sir, your air is noble — something so 
liberal in your carriage, with so penetrating an eye, 
and so bewitching a smile ! 

Isaac. Egad, now I look at her again, I don't 
think she is so ugly ! [Aside. 

Duen. So little like a Jew, and so much like a 
gentleman ! 

Isaac. Well, certainly there is something pleas- 
ing in the tone of her voice. [Aside. 

Duen. You will pardon this breach of decorum 
in praising you thus, but my joy at being so 
agreeably deceived has given me such a flow of 
spirits ! 

Isaac. Oh, dear lady, may I thank those dear 
lips for this goodness ? — [Kisses her.] Why she 
has a pretty sort of velvet down, that's the truth 
on't. [Aside. 

Duen. O, sir, you have the most insinuating 
manner, but indeed you should get rid of that 
odious beard — one might as well kiss a hedgehog. 

Isaac. [Aside.] Yes, ma'am, the razor wouldn't 
be amiss — for either of us. — [Aloud.] Could you 
favour me with a song ? 



Duen. Willingly, sir, though I am rather hoarse 
— ahem ! [Begins to sing. 

Isaac. [Aside.] Very like a Virginia nightingale ! 
— [Aloud.] ma'am, I perceive you're hoarse — I 
beg you will not distress — 

Duen. Oh, not in the least distressed ; — now, 
sir. 

SONG. 

When a tender maid 

Is first essay'd 
By some admiring swain, 

How her blushes rise 

If she meet his eyes, 
While he unfolds his pain ! 
If he takes her hand — she trembles quite ! 
Touch her lips— and she swoons outright ! 

While a pit-a-pat, &c. 

Her heart avows her fright. 

But in time appear 

Fewer signs of fear ; 
The youth she boldly views . 

If her hand he grasp, 

Or her bosom clasp, 
No mantling blush ensues ! 
Then to church well pleased the lovers move, 
While her smiles her contentment prove ; 

And a pit-a-pat, &c. 

Her heart avows her love. 

Isaac. Charming, ma'am ! enchanting ! and, 
truly, your notes put me in mind of one that's 
very dear to me ; a lady, indeed, whom you greatly 
resemble ! 

Duen. How ! is there, then, another so dear to 
you? 

Isaac. Oh, no, ma'am, you mistake ; it was my 
mother I meant. 

Duen. Come, sir, I see you are amazed and 
confounded at my condescension, and know not 
what to say. 

Isaac. It is very true, indeed, ma'am ; but it is 
a judgment, I look on it as a judgment on me, for 
delaying to urge the time when you'll permit me to 
complete my happiness, by acquainting Don Jeiome 
with your condescension. 

Duen. Sir, I must frankly own to you, that I 
can never be yours with my father's consent. 

Isaac. Good lack ! how so ? 

Duen. When my father, in his passion, swore 
he would never see me again till I acquiesced in 
his will, I also made a vow, that I would never 
take a husband from his hand ; nothing shall make 
me break that oath : but, if you have spirit and 
contrivance enough to carry me off without his 
knowledge, I'm yours. 

Isaac. Hum ! 

Duen. Nay, sir, if you hesitate — 

Isaac. [Aside.] I'faith, no bad whim this ! — 
If I take her at her word, I shall secure her for- 
tune, and avoid making any settlement in return ; 
thus I shall not only cheat the lover, but the 
father too. — Oh, cunning rogue, Isaac ! ay. ay, let 
this little brain alone ! — Egad, I'll take her in the 
mind ! 

Duen. Well, sir, what's your determination ? 

Isaac. Madam, I was dumb only from rapture — 
I applaud your spirit, and joyfully close with your 
proposal ; for which, thus let me, on this lily hand, 
express my gratitude. 

Duen. Well, sir, you must get my father's con- 
sent to walk with me in the garden. But by no 
means inform him of my kindness to you. 



SCENE III. 



THE DUENNA. 



47 



Isaac. No, to be sure, that would spoil all : but, 
trust me, when tricking is the word — let me alone 
for a piece of cunning ; this very day you shall be 
out of his power. 

Duen. Well, I leave the management of it all 
to you ; I perceive plain, sir, that you are not one 
that can be easily outwitted. 

Isaac. Egad, you're right, madam — you're right, 
i'faith. 

Re-enter Maid. 

Maid. Here's a gentleman at the door, who begs 
permission to speak with signor Isaac. 

Isaac. A friend of mine, ma'am, and a trusty 
friend — let him come in. — [Exit Maid.] He is one 
to be depended on, ma'am. 

Enter Don Carlos. 

So, COZ ! [Talks apart with Don Carlos. 

Don Car. I have left Donna Clara at your lodg- 
ings, but can nowhere find Antonio. 

Isaac. Well, I will search him out myself. — " 
Carlos, you rogue, I thrive, I prosper ! 

Don Car. Where is your mistress ? 

Isaac. There, you booby, there she stands. 

Don. Car. Why, she's damned ugly ! 

Isaac. Hush! [Stops his mouth. 

Duen. What is your friend saying, signor ? 

Isaac. Oh, ma'am, he is expressing his rap- 
tures at such charms as he never saw before. — Eh, 
Carlos ? 

Don Car. Ay, such as I never saw before, 
indeed ! 

Duen. You are a very obliging gentleman 

Well, signor Isaac, I believe we had better part for 
the present. Remember our plan. 

Isaac. Oh, ma'am, it is written in my heart, 
fixed as the image of those divine beauties. — Adieu, 
idol of my soul ! — yet once more permit me — 

[Kisses her. 

Duen. Sweet, courteous sir, adieu! 

Isaac. Your slave eternally ! — Come, Carlos, 
say something civil at taking leave. 

Don Car. I'faith, Isaac, she is the hardest wo- 
man to compliment I ever saw ; however, I'll try 
something I had studied for the occasion. 

SONG. 

Ah ! sure a pair was never seen 

So justly form'd to meet by nature! 
The youth excelling so in mien, 
The maid in every grace of feature. 
Oh, how happy are such lovers, 
When kindred beauties each discovers ! 
For surely she 
Was made for thee, 
And thou to bless this lovely creature ! 

So mild your looks, your children thence 

Will early learn the task of duty — 
The boys with all their father's sense, 
The girls with all their mother's beauty ! 
Oh, how happy to inherit 
At once such graces and such spirit ! 
Thus while you live 
May fortune give 
Each blessing equal to your merit ! [Exeunt. 



SCENE III. 



-A Library in Don Jerome's 
House. 



Don Jerome and Don Ferdinand discovered. 

Don Jer. Object to Antonio ! I have said it 

His poverty, can you acquit him of that ? 

Don Ferd. Sir, I own he is not over rich ; but 
he is of as ancient and honourable a family as any 
in the kingdom. 

Don Jer. Yes, I know the beggars are a very 
ancient family in most kingdoms ; but never in 
great repute, boy. 

Don Ferd. Antonio, sir, has many amiable 
qualities. 

Don Jer. But he is poor; can you clear him 
of that, I say ? Is he not a gay, dissipated rake, 
who has squandered his patrimony ? 

Don Ferd. Sir, he inherited but little ; and that, 
his generosity, more than his profuseness, has 
stripped him of; but he has never sullied his 
honour, which, with his title, has outlived his 
means. 

Don Jer. Psha ! you talk like a blockhead ! 
nobility, without an estate, is as ridiculous as gold 
lace on a frize coat. 

Don Ferd. This language, sir, would better 
become a Dutch or English trader than a Spa- 
niard. 

Don Jer. Yes ; and those Dutch and English 
traders, as you call them, are the wiser people. 
Why, booby, in England they were formerly as 
nice, as to birth and family, as we are : but they 
have long discovered what a wonderful purifier gold 
is ; and now, no one there regards pedigree in any- 
thing but a horse. — Oh, here comes Isaac ! I hope 
he has prospered in his suit. 

Don Ferd. Doubtless, that agreeable figure of 
his must have helped his suit surprisingly. 

Don Jer. How now ! 

[Don Ferdinand walks aside 

Enter Isaac, 

Well, my friend, have you softened her ? 

Isaac. Oh, yes ; I have softened her. 

Don Jer. What, does she come to ? 

Isaac. Why, truly she was kinder than I ex- 
pected to find her. 

Don Jer. And the dear little angel was civil, 
hey? 

Isaac. Yes, the pretty little angel was very 
civil. 

Don Jer. I'm transported to hear it ! — Well, 
and you were astonished at her beauty, hey ? 

Isaac. I was astonished, indeed ! pray, how old 
is miss ? 

Don Jer. How old ! let me see — eight and 
twelve — she is twenty. 

Isaac. Twenty? 

Don Jer. Ay, to a month. 

Isaac. Then, upon my soul, she is the oldest- 
looking girl of her age in Christendom ! 

Don Jer. Do you think so ? but, I believe, you 
will not see a prettier girl. 

Isaac. Here and there one. 

Don Jer. Louisa has the family face. 

Isaac. Yes, egad, I should have taken it for a 
family face, and one that has been in the family 
some time too. [Aside. 

Don Jer. She has her father's eyes. 



48 



THE DUENNA, 



ACT II. 



Isaac. Truly I should have guessed them to have 
been so ! — If she had her mother's spectacles, I 
believe she would not see the worse. [Aside. 

Don Jer. Her aunt Ursula's nose, and her 
grandmother's forehead, to a hair. 

Isaac. Ay, faith, and her grandfather's chin to 
a hair. [Aside. 

Don Jer. Well, if she was but as dutiful as she's 
handsome — and hark ye, friend Isaac, she is none 
of your made-up beauties — her charms are of the 
lasting kind. 

Isaac. I'faith, so they should— for if she be but 
twenty now, she may double her age before her 
years will overtake her face. 

Don Jer. Why, zounds, master Isaac ! you are 
not sneering, are you ? 

Isaac. Why now, seriously, Don Jerome, do you 
think your daughter handsome ? 

Don Jer. By this light, she's as handsome a 
girl as any in Seville. 

Isaac. Then, by these eyes, I think her as plain 
a woman as ever I beheld. 

Don Jer. By St. Iago, you must be blind. 

Isaac. No, no ; 'tis you are partial. 

Don Jer. How! have I neither sense nor taste? 
If a fair skin, fine eyes, teeth of ivory, with a lovely 
bloom, and a delicate shape — if these, with a hea- 
venly voice, and a world of grace, are not charms, 
I know not what you call beautiful. 

Isaac. Good lack, with what eyes a father sees i 
As I have life she is the very reverse of all this : 
as for the dimity skin you told me of, I swear 'tis 
a thorough nankeen as ever I saw ! for her eyes, 
their utmost merit is not squinting — for her teeth, 
where there is one of ivory, its neighbour is pure 
ebony, black and white alternately, just like the 
keys of a harpsichord. Then, as to her singing, 
and heavenly voice — by this hand, she has a shrill, 
cracked pipe, that sounds, for all the world, like a 
child's trumpet. 

Don Jer. Why, you little Hebrew scoundrel, do 
you mean to insult me ? out of my house, I say ! 

Don Ferd. [Coming forward.] Dear sir, what's 
the matter ? 

Don Jer. Why, this Israelite here has the im- 
pudence to say your sister's ugly. 

Don Ferd. He must be either blind or insolent. 

Isaac. So, I find they are all in a story. Egad, 
I believe I have gone too far ! [Aside. 

Don Ferd. Sure, sir, there must be some 
mistake ; it can't be my sister whom he has 
seen. 

Don Jer. 'Sdeath ! you are as great a fool as he ! 
what mistake can there be? did not I lock up 
Louisa, and haven't I the key in my own pocket ? 
and didn't her maid show him into the dressing- 
room ? and yet you talk of a mistake ! — No, the 
Portuguese meant to insult me— and, but that this 
roof protects him, old as I am, this sword should 
do me justice. 

Isaac. I must get off as well as I can — her for- 
tune is not the less handsome. [Aside. 

DUET. 

Isaac. Believe me, good sir, I ne'er meant to offend ; 
My mistress I love, and I value my friend : 
To win her and wed her is still my request, 
For better, for worse — and I swear I don't jest. 
Don Jer. Zounds ! you'd best not provoke me, my rage 
is so high ! 



Isaac. Hold him fast, I beseech you, his rage is so 
high ! 
Good sir, you're too hot, and this place I must 
Ay- 
Dow Jer. You're a knave and a sot, and this place you'd 
best fly. 

Isaac. Don Jerome, come now, let us lay aside 
all joking, and be serious. 

Don Jer. How ! 

Isaac. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I'll be hanged if you 
haven't taken my abuse of your daughter seriously. 

Don Jer. You meant it so, did not you ? 

Isaac. O mercy, no ! a joke — just to try how 
angry it would make you. 

Don Jer. Was that all, i'faith ? I didn't know 
you had been such a wag, ha ! ha ! ha ! By St. 
Iago ! you made me very angry though. — Well, 
and you do think Louisa handsome ? 

Isaac. Handsome! Venus de Medicis was a 
sibyl to her. 

Don Jer. Give me your hand, you little jocose 
rogue ! — Egad, I thought we had been all off. 

Don Ferd. So ! I was in hopes this would have 
been a quarrel ; but I find the Jew is too cunning. 

[Aside. 

Don Jer. Ay, this gust of passion has made me 
dry — I am seldom ruffled. — Order some wine in 
the next room — let us drink the poor girl's health. 
Poor Louisa ! ugly, hey ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 'twas a 
very good joke, indeed ! 

Isaac. And a very true one for all that. [Aside. 

Don Jer. And, Ferdinand, I insist upon your 
drinking success to my friend. 

Don Ferd. Sir, I will drink success to my friend 
with all my heart. 

Don Jer. Come, little Solomon, if any sparks 
of anger had remained, this would be the only way 
to quench them. 

TRIO. 
A bumper of good liquor 
Will end a contest quicker 
Than justice, judge, or vicar ; 
So fill a cheerful glass, 
And let good humour pass. 

But if more deep the quarrel, 
Why sooner drain the barrel 
Than be the hateful fellow 
That's crabbed when he's mellow. 

A bumper, &<?. [Exeunt. 



SCENE IV.— Isaac's Lodgings. 
Enter Donna Louisa. 
Don. Louisa. Was ever truant daughter so 
whimsically circumstanced as I am ! I have sent 
my intended husband to look after my lover — the 
man of my father's choice is gone to bring me the 
man of my own. But how dispiriting is this in- 
terval of expectation 1 

SONG. 
What bard, O Time, discover, 

With wings first made thee move ? 
Ah ! sure it was some lover 
Who ne'er had left his love ! 
For who that once did prove 
The pangs which absence brings, 
Though but one day 
He were away, 
Could picture thee with wings ? 

What bard, &c. 



THE DUENNA. 



49 



Enter Don Carlos. 

So, friend, is Antonio found ? i 

Don Car. I could not meet with him, lady ; but 
I doubt not my friend Isaac will be here with him 
presently. 

Don. Louisa. Oh, shame ! you have used no 
diligence. — Is this your courtesy to a lady, who 
has trusted herself to your protection ? 

Don Car. Indeed, madam, I have not been remiss. 

Don. Louisa. Well, well ; but if either of you 
had known how each moment of delay weighs upon 
the heart of her who loves, and waits the object of 
her love, oh, ye would not then have trifled thus ! 

Don Car. Alas, I know it well ! 

Don. Louisa. Were you ever in love then ? 

Don Car. I was, lady ; but while I have life, 
will never be again. 

Don. Louisa. Was your mistress so cruel ? 

Don Car. If she had always been so, I should 
have been happier. 

SONG. 

O had my love ne'er smiled on me, 

I ne'er had known such anguish ; 
But think how false, how cruel she, 

To bid me cease to languish ; 
To bid me hope her hand to gain, 

Breathe on a flame half perish'd ; 
And then with cold and fix'd disdain 

To kill the hope she cherish'd. 

Not worse his fate, who on a wreck, 

That drove as winds did blow it, 
Silent had left the shatter'd deck, 

To find a grave below it : 
Then land was cried— no more resign'd, 

He glow'd with joy to hear it ; 
Not worse his fate, his woe, to find 

The wreck must sink ere near it ! 

Don. Louisa. As I live, here is your friend 
coming with Antonio ! — I'll retire for a moment 
to surprise him. [Exit. 

Enter Isaac and Don Antonio. 

Don Ant. Indeed, my good friend, you must be 
mistaken. Clara d' Almanza in love with me, and 
employ you to bring me to meet her ! It is im- 
possible ! 

Isaac. That you shall see in an instant. — Carlos, 
where is the lady ? — [Don Carlos points to the 
door.~\ In the next room, is she? 

Don Ant. Nay, if that lady is really here, she 
certainly wants me to conduct her to a dear friend 
of mine, who has long been her lover. 

Isaac. Psha ! I tell you 'tis no such thing — you 
are the man she wants, and nobody but you. 
Here's ado to persuade you to take a pretty girl 
that's dying for you ! 

Don Ant. But I have no affection for this lady. 

Isaac. And you have for Louisa, hey ? but 
take my word for it, Antonio, you have no chance 
there — so you may as well secure the good that 
offers itself to you. 

Don Ant. And could you reconcile it to your 
conscience, to supplant your friend ? 

Isaac. Pish ! Conscience has no more to do 
with gallantry than it has with politics. Why, 
you are no honest fellow if love can't make a rogue 
of you — so come, do go in and speak to her at last. 

Don Ant. Well, I have no objection to that. 

Isaac. [Opens the door. ] There — there she is — 
yonder by the window — get in, do. — [Pushes him 



in, and half shuts the door.] Now, Carlos, now I 
shall hamper him, I warrant ! — Stay, I'll peep 
how they go on. Egad, he looks confoundedly 
posed ! Now she's coaxing him — see, Carlos, he 
begins to come to — ay, ay, he'll soon forget his 
conscience. 

Don Car. Look — now they are both laughing I 

Isaac. Ay, so they are — yes, yes, they are 
laughing at that dear friend he talked of— ay, poor 
devil, they have outwitted him. 

Don Car. Now he's kissing her hand. 

Isaac. Yes, yes, 'faith, they're agreed— he's 
caught, he's entangled — my dear Carlos, we have 
brought it about. Oh, this little cunning head ! 
I'm a Machiavel — a very Machiavel ! 

Don Car. I hear somebody inquiring for you — 
I'll see who it is. [Exit. 

Re-enter Don Antonio and Donna Louisa. 

Don Ant. Well, my good friend, this lady has 
so entirely convinced me of the certainty of your 
success at Don Jerome's, that I now resign my 
pretensions there. 

Isaac. You never did a wiser thing, believe me ; 
and as for deceiving your friend, that's nothing at 
all — tricking is all fair in love, isn't it, ma'am ? 

Don. Louisa. Certainly, sir ; and I am particu- 
larly glad to find you are of that opinion. 

Isaac. O Lud ! yes, ma'am — let any one outwit 
me that can, I say ! — But here, let me join your 
hands.— There, you lucky rogue ! I wish you hap- 
pily married, from the bottom of my soul ! 

Don. Louisa. And I am sure if you wish it, no 
one else should prevent it. 

Isaac. Now, Antonio, we are rivals no more ; 
so let us be friends, will you ? 

Don Ant. With all my heart, Isaac. 

Isaac. It is not every man, let me tell you, that 
would have taken such pains, or been so generous 
to a rival. 

Don Ant. No, 'faith ; I don't believe there's 
another beside yourself in all Spain. 

Isaac. Well, but you resign all pretensions to 
the other lady ? 

Don Ant. That I do, most sincerely. 

Isaac. I doubt you have a little hankering there 
still. 

Don Ant. None in the least, upon my soul. 

Isaac. I mean after her fortune. 

Don Ant. No, believe me. — You are heartily 
welcome to everything she has. 

Isaac. Well, i'faith, you have the best of the 
bargain, as to beauty, twenty to one. — Now I'll tell 
you a secret — I am to carry off Louisa this very 
evening. 

Don. Louisa. Indeed ! 

Isaac. Yes, she has sworn not to take a husband 
from her father's hand — so, I've persuaded him to 
trust her to walk with me in the garden, and then 
we shall give him the slip. 

Don. Louisa. And is Don Jerome to know 
nothing of this ? 

Isaac. O Lud, no ! there lies the jest. — Don't 
you see that, by this step, I overreach him ? I 
shall be entitled to the girl's fortune, without 
settling a ducat on her, ha ! ha ! ha ! I'm a cun- 
ning dog, an't I ? a sly little villain, eh ? 

Don Ant. Ha ! ha ! ha ! you are indeed ! 

Isaac. Roguish, you'll say, but keen, eh ?- 
devilish keen ? 

E 



50 



THE DUENNA. 



Don Ant. So you are indeed — keen — very keen. 

Isaac. And what a laugh we shall have at Don 
Jerome's when the truth comes out ! hey ? 

Bon. Louisa. Yes, I'll answer for it, we shall 
have a good laugh when the truth comes out, ha ! 
ha ! ha ! 

Re-enter Don Carlos. 

Don Car. Here are the dancers come to practise 
the fandango you intended to have honoured Donna 
Louisa with. 

Isaac. Oh, I shan't want them ; but as I must 
pay them, I'll see a caper for my money — will you 
excuse me ? 

Don. Louisa. Willingly. 

Isaac. Here's my friend, whom you may com- 
mand for any service. Madam, your most obedient 
- — Antonio, I wish you all happiness. — [Aside.] 
Oh, the easy blockhead ! what a tool I have made 
of him ! — This was a masterpiece ! {Exit. 

Don. Louisa. Carlos, will you be my guard 
again, and convey me to the convent of St. Catha- 
rine ? 

Don Ant. Why, Louisa — why should you go 
there ? 



Don. Louisa. I have my reasons, and you must 
not be seen to go with me ; I shall write from 
thence to my father ; perhaps, when he finds what 
he has driven me to, he may relent. 

Don Ant. I have no hope from him. — O Louisa ! 
in these arms should be your sanctuary. 

Don. Louisa. Be patient but for a little while 
— my father cannot force me from thence. But let 
me see you there before evening, and I will explain 
myself. 

Don Ant. I shall obey. 

Don. Louisa. Come, friend. — Antonio, Carlos 
has been a lover himself. 

Don Ant. Then he knows the value of his 
trust. 

Don Car. You shall not find me unfaithful. 

TRIO. 

Soft pity never leaves the gentle breast 

Where love has been received a welcome guest ; 

As wandering saints poor huts have sacred made, 

He hallows every heart he once has sway'd ; 

And when his presence we no longer share, 

Still leaves compassion as a relic there. {Exeunt. 



ACT III. 



SCENE I. — A Library in Don Jerome's House. 
Enter Don Jerome and Servant. 

Don Jer. Why, I never was so amazed in my 
life ! Louisa gone off with Isaac Mendoza ! — 
What ! steal away with the very man whom I 
wanted her to marry — elope with her own husband, 
as it were — it is impossible ! 

Ser. Her maid says, sir, they had your leave to 
walk in the garden while you was abroad. — The 
door by the shrubbery was found open, and they 
have not been heard of since. {Exit. 

Don Jer. Well, it is the most unaccountable 
affair ! 'sdeath ! there is certainly some infernal 
mystery in it I can't comprehend ! 

Enter Second Servant, with a letter. 

Ser. Here is a letter, sir, from signor Isaac. 

{Exit. 

Don Jer. So, so, this will explain — ay, Isaac 
Mendoza — let me see — {Reads. 

Dearest Sir, 

You must, doubtless, be much surprised at my 
flight with your daughter ! — Yes, 'faith, and well 
I may — I had the happiness to gain her heart at 
our first interview. — The devil you had ! — But she 
having unfortunately made a vow not to receive a 
husband from your hands, I was obliged to comply 
with her whim ! — So, so ! — We shall shortly throw 
ourselves at your feet, and I hope you will have a 
blessing ready for one, who will then be your son- 
in-law, Isaac Mendoza. 

A whim, hey? Why, the devil's in the girl, I 
think ! This morning, she would die sooner than 
have him, and before evening, she runs away with 
him ! — Well, well, my will's accomplished — let the 
motive be what it will — and the Portuguese, sure, 
will never deny to fulfil the rest of the article. 



Re-enter Servant, with another letter. 



Ser. Sir, here's a man below, who says he 
brought this from my young lady, Donna Louisa. 

{Exit. 
Don Jer. How ! yes, it is my daughter's hand 
indeed ! Lord, there was no occasion for them 
both to write ; well, let's see what she says — 

{Reads. 
My dearest Father, 

How shall I entreat your pardon for the rash 
step I have taken — how confess the motived — 
Pish ! hasn't Isaac just told me the motive ? — one 
would think they weren't together when they wrote 
— If I have a spirit too resentful of ill usage, I 
have also a heart as easily affected by kindness. — 
So, so, here the whole matter comes out ; her 
resentment for Antonio's ill usage has made her 
sensible of Isaac's kindness — yes, yes, it is all 
plain enough — well. — / am not married yet, though 
with a man, I am. convinced, adores me — Yes, yes, 
I dare say Isaac is very fond of her — But I shall 
anxiously expect your answer, in which, should I 
be so fortunate as to receive your consent, you will 
make completely happy, your ever affectionate 
daughter, Louisa. 

My consent ? to be sure she shall have it ! — egad, 
I was never better pleased — I have fulfilled my 
resolution — I knew I should. — Oh, there's nothing 
like obstinacy ! — Lewis ! {Calls. 

Re-enter Servant. 

Let the man, who brought the last letter, wait ; 
and get me a pen and ink below. — [Exit Servant.] 
1 am impatient to set poor Louisa's heart at rest. 
— Holloa ! Lewis ! Sancho ! {Calls. 



SCENE 11. 



THE DUENNA. 



51 



Enter Servants. 
See that there be a noble supper provided in the 
saloon to-night ; serve up my best wines, and let 
me have music ; — d'ye hear ? 

Ser. Yes, sir. 

Don Jer. And order all my doors to be thrown 
open ; admit all guests, with masks or without 
masks.— [Exeunt Servants.] I'faith, we'll have a 
night of it ! and I'll let them see how merry an old 
man can be. 

SONG. 

Oh, the days when I was young, 

When I laugh'd in fortune's spite ; 
Talk'd of love the whole day long, 

And with nectar crown'd the night ! 
Then it was, old father Care, 

Little reck'd I of thy frown ; 
Half thy malice youth could hear, 

And the rest a bumper drown. 

Truth, they say, lies in a well. 

Why, I vow I ne'er could see ; 
Let the water-drinkers tell, 

There it always lay for me : 
For when sparkling wine went round, 

Never saw I falsehood's mask ; 
But still honest truth I found 

At the bottom of each flask. 

True, at length my vigour's flown, 

I have years to bring decay ; 
Few the locks that now I own, 

And the few I have are grey. 
Yet, old Jerome, thou mayst boast, 

While thy spirits do not tire; 
Still beneath thy age's frost 

Glows a spark of youthful fire. 



[.Exit. 



SCENE II.— The New Piazza. 
Enter Don Ferdinand and Lopez. 

Don Ferd. What, could you gather no tidings 
of her ? nor guess where she was gone ? — O Clara ! 
Clara ! 

Lop. In truth, sir, I could not. That she was 
run away from her father, was in everybody's 
mouth ; and that Don Guzman was in pursuit of 
her, was also a very common report. Where she 
was gone, or what was become of her, no one could 
take upon them to say. 

Don Ferd. 'Sdeath and fury, you blockhead ! 
she can't be out of Seville. 

Lop. So I said to myself, sir. 'Sdeath and 
fury, you blockhead, says I, she can't be out of 
Seville. Then some said, she had hanged herself 
for love ; and others have it, Don Antonio had car- 
ried her off. 

Don Ferd. 'Tis false, scoundrel ! no one said 
that. 

Lop. Then I misunderstood them, sir. 

Don Ferd. Go, fool, get home ! and never let 
me see you again till you bring me news of her. — 
[Exit Lopez.] Oh, how my fondness for this 
ungrateful girl has hurt my disposition ! 

Enter Isaac. 

Isaac. So, I have her safe, and have only to 
find a priest to marry us. Antonio now may marry 
Clara, or not, if he pleases. 

Don Ferd. What ! what was that you said of 
Clara? 



Isaac. Oh, Ferdinand ! my brother-in-law that 
shall be, who thought of meeting you ! 

Don Ferd. But what of Clara ? 

Isaac. I'faith, you shall hear. This morning, 
as I was coming down, I met a pretty damsel, who 
told me her name was Clara d'Almanza, and 
begged my protection. 

Don Ferd. How ! 

Isaac. She said she had eloped from her father, 
Don Guzman, but that love for a young gentle- 
man in Seville was the cause. 

Don Ferd. Oh, Heavens ! did she confess it ? 

Isaac. Oh, yes, she confessed at once ; — but 
then, says she, my lover is not informed of my 
flight, nor suspects my intention. 

Don Ferd. [Aside.] Dear creature ! no more 
I did indeed ! Oh, I am the happiest fellow i — 
[Aloud.] Well, Isaac? 

Isaac. Why, then she entreated me to find him 
out for her, and bring him to her. 

Don Ferd. Good Heavens, how lucky ! — Well, 
come along ; let's lose no time. [Pulling him. 

Isaac. Zooks ! where are we to go ? 

Don Ferd. Why, did anything more pass ? 

Isaac. Anything more ! yes ; the end on't was, 
that I was moved with her speeches, and complied 
with her desires. 

Don Ferd. Well, and where is she ? 

Isaac. Where is she ! why, don't I tell you ? I 
complied with her request, and left her safe in the 
arms of her lover. 

Don Ferd. 'Sdeath, you trifle with me !— I have 
never seen her. 

Isaac. You ! O Lud, no ! how the devil should 
you ? 'Twas Antonio she wanted ; and with Anto- 
nio I left her. 

Don Ferd. [Aside.] Hell and madness ! — 
[Aloud.] What, Antonio d'Ercilla ? 

Isaac. Ay, ay, the very man ; and the best part 
of it was, he was shy of taking her at first. He 
talked a good deal about honour, and conscience, 
and deceiving some dear friend ; but, Lord, we 
soon overruled that ! 

Don Ferd. You did ! 

Isaac. Oh, yes, presently. — Such deceit! says 
he. — Pish ! says the lady, tricking is all fair in love. 
But then, my friend, says he. — Psha ! damn your 
friend, says I. So, poor wretch, he has no chance. 
— No, no ; he may hang himself as soon as he 
i 



Don Ferd. I must go, or I shall betray myself. 

[Aside. 

Isaac. But stay, Ferdinand, you han't heard 
the best of the joke. 

Don Ferd. Curse on your joke ! 

Isaac. Good lack ! what's the matter now ? I 
thought to have diverted you. 

Don Ferd. Be racked ! tortured ! damned ! 

Isaac. Why, sure you are not the poor devil of 
a lover, are you ? — I'faith, as sure as can be, he is ! 
This is a better joke than t'other, ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Don Ferd. What ! do you laugh ? you vile, 

mischievous varlet ! — [Collars him.] But that 

you're beneath my anger, I'd tear your heart out ! 

[Throws him from him. 

Isaac. O mercy ! here's usage for a brother-in- 
law ! 

Don Ferd. But, hark ye, rascal ! tell me directly 
where these false friends are gone, or, by my soul— 

[Draws. 
£2 



52 



THE DUENNA. 



Isaac. For Heaven's sake, now, my dear bro- 
ther-in-law, don't be in a rage ! I'll recollect as 
well as I can. 

Don Ferd. Be quick then ! 

Isaac. I will, I will !— but people's memories 
differ ; some have a treacherous memory : now 
mine is a cowardly memory — it takes to its heels at 
sight of a drawn sword, it does, i'faith ; and I 
could as soon fight as recollect. 

Don Ferd. Zounds ! tell me the truth, and I 
won't hurt you. 

Isaac. No, no, I know you won't, my dear 
brother-in-law ; but that ill-looking thing there — 

Don Ferd. What, then, you won't tell me ? 

Isaac. Yes, yes, I will ; I'll tell you all, upon 
my soul ! — but why need you listen sword in hand? 

Don Ferd. Why, there. — [Puts up.] Now. 

Isaac. Why, then, I believe they are gone to — 
that is, my friend Carlos told me, he had left 
Donna Clara — dear Ferdinand, keep your hands 
off — at the convent of St. Catharine. 

Don Ferd. St. Catharine ? 

Isaac. Yes ; and that Antonio was to come to 
her there. 

Don Ferd. Is this the truth ? 

Isaac. It is indeed ; and all I know, as I hope 
for life ! 

Don Ferd. Well, coward, take your life ! 'tis 
that false, dishonourable Antonio, who shall feel 
my vengeance. 

Isaac. Ay, ay, kill him ; cut his throat, and 
welcome. 

Don Ferd. But, for. Clara ! infamy on her ! she 
is not worth my resentment. 

Isaac. No more she is, my dear brother-in-law. 
I'faith, I would not be angry about her ; she is not 
worth it, indeed. 

Don Ferd. Tis false ! she is worth the enmity 
of princes ! 

Isaac. True, true, so she is ; and I pity you 
exceedingly for having lost her. 

Don Ferd. 'Sdeath, you rascal! how durst you 
talk of pitying me ? 

Isaac. Oh, dear brother-in-law, I beg pardon ! 
I don't pity you in the least, upon my soul ! 

Don Ferd. Get hence, fool, and provoke me no 
further; nothing but your insignificance saves you ! 

Isaac. [Aside.] I'faith, then, my insignificance 
is the best friend I have. — [Aloud.] I'm going, 
dear Ferdinand. — [Aside.] What a curst hot- 
headed bully it is ! lExeunt severally. 



SCENE III.— The Garden of the Convent. 
Enter Donna Loujsa and Donna Clara. 

Don. Louisa. And you really wish my brother 
may not find you out ? 

Don. Clara. Why else have I concealed my- 
self under this disguise ? 

Don. Louisa. Why, perhaps, because the dress 
becomes you ; for you certainly don't intend to be 
a nun for life. 

Don. Clara. If, indeed, Ferdinand had not 
offended me so last night — 

Don. Louisa. Come, come, it was his fear of 
losing you made him so rash. 

Don. Clara. Well, you may think me cruel, 
but I swear, if he were here this instant, I believe 
1 should forgive him. 



SONG. 

By him we love offended, 

How soon our anger flies ! 
One day apart, 'tis ended ; 

Behold him, and it dies. 

Last night, your roving brother, 

Enraged I bade depart ; 
And sure his rude presumption 

Deserved to lose my heart. 
Yet, were he now before me, 

In spite of injured pride, 
I fear my eyes would pardon 

Before my tongue could chide. 

Don. Louisa. I protest, Clara, I shall begin to 
think you are seriously resolved to enter on your 
probation. 

Don. Clara. And, seriously, I very much doubt 
whether the character of a nun would not become 
me best. 

Don. Louisa. Why, to be sure, the character of 
a nun is a very becoming one at a masquerade ; but 
no pretty woman, in her senses, ever thought of 
taking the veil for above a night. 

Don. Clara. Yonder I see your Antonio is re- 
turned — I shall only interrupt you ; ah, Louisa, 
with what happy eagerness you turn to look for him '. 

[Exit. 
Enter Don Antonio. 

Don Ant. Well, my Louisa, any news since I 
left you ? 

Don. Louisa. None The messenger is not re- 
turned from my father. 

Don Ant. Well, I confess, I do not perceive 
what we are to expect from him. 

Don. Louisa. I shall be easier, however, in 
having made the trial : I do not doubt your sin- 
cerity, Antonio ; but there is a chilling air around 
poverty, that often kills affection, that was not 
nursed in it. — If we would make love our house- 
hold god, we had best secure him a comfortable 
roof. 

SONG. 

Bon Ant. How oft, Louisa, hast thou told, 

(Nor wilt thou the fond boast disown), 
Thou wouldst not lose Antonio's love 

To reign the partner of a throne. 
And by those lips, that spoke so kind, 

And by that hand, I've press'd to mine, 
To be the lord of wealth and power, 

By Heavens, I would not part with thine ! 

Then how, my soul, can we be poor, 

Who own what kingdoms could not buy ? 
Of this true heart thou shalt be queen, 

And, serving thee, a monarch I. 
Thus uncontroll'd, in mutual bliss, 

And rich in love's exhaustless mine, 
Do thou snatch treasures from my lips, 

And I'll take kingdoms back from thine ! 

Enter Maid, with a letter. 

Don. Louisa. My father's answer, I suppose. 

Don Ant. My dearest Louisa, you may be as- 
sured, that it contains nothing but threats and 
reproaches. 

Don. Louisa. Let us see, however,— .[Reads.] 
Dearest daughter, make your lover happy ; you 
have my full consent to marry as your whim has 
chosen, but be sure come home and sup with your 
affectionate father. 

Don Ant. You jest, Louisa ! 



THE DUENNA. 



53 



Don. Louisa. [Gives him, the letter.] Read! 
read ! 

Don Ant. 'Tis so, by Heavens ! — Sure there 
must be some mistake ; but that's none of our 
business. — Now, Louisa, you have no excuse for 
delay. 

Don. Louisa. Shall we not then return and 
thank my father ? 

Don Ant. But first let the priest put it out of 
his power to recall his word. — I'll fly to procure one. 

Don. Louisa. Nay, if you part with me again, 
perhaps you may lose me. 

Don Ant. Come then — there is a friar of a 
neighbouring convent is my friend ; you have 
already been diverted by the manners of a nunnery ; 
let us see whether there is less hypocrisy among 
the holy fathers. 

Don. Louisa. I'm afraid not, Antonio — for in 
religion, as in friendship, they who profess most are 
ever the least sincere. [Exeunt. 

Re-enter Donna Clara. 

Don. Clara. So, yonder they go, as happy as a 
mutual and confessed affection can make them, 
while I am left in solitude. Heigho ! love may 
perhaps excuse the rashness of an elopement from 
one's friend, but I am sure, nothing but the pre- 
sence of the man we love can support it. — Ha ! 
what do I see ! Ferdinand, as I live ! how could 
he gain admission ? — By potent gold, I suppose, as 
Antonio did. — How eager and disturbed he seems ! 
— he shall not know me as yet. {Lets down her veil. 

Enter Don Ferdinand. 

Don Ferd. Yes, those were certainly they — my 
information was right. [Going. 

Don. Clara. [Stops him.'] Pray, signor, what is 
your business here ? 

Don Ferd. No matter — no matter ! — Oh, they 
stop — [Looks out.] Yes, that is the perfidious 
Clara indeed ! 

Don. Clara. So, a jealous error — I'm glad to see 
him so moved. [Aside. 

Don Ferd. Her disguise can't conceal her — no, 
no, I know her too well. 

Don. Clara. [Aside.] Wonderful discernment ! 
— [Aloud.] But, signor — 

Don Ferd. Be quiet, good nun ; don't tease 
me ! — By Heavens, she leans upon his arm, hangs 
fondly on it ! O woman, woman ! 

Don. Clara. But, signor, who is it you want ? 

Don Ferd. Not you, not you, so prithee don't 
tease me. Yet pray stay — gentle nun, was it not 
Donna Clara d'Almanza just parted from you ? 

Don. Clara. Clara d'Almanza, signor, is not yet 
out of the garden. 

Don Ferd. Ay, ay, I knew I was right ! — And 
pray is not that gentleman, now at the porch with 
her, Antonio d'Ercilla ? 

Don. Clara. It is indeed, signor. 

Don Ferd. So, so ; now but one question more 
— can you inform me for what purpose they have 
gone away ? 

Don. Clara. They are gone to be married, I 
believe. 

Don Ferd. Very well—enough — now if I don't 
mar their wedding ! [Exit. 

Don. Clara. [ Unveils.] I thought jealousy had 
made lovers quick-sighted, but it has made mine 
blind. — Louisa's story accounts to me for this 



error, and I am glad to find I have power enough 
over him to make him so unhappy. But why 
should not I be present at his surprise when unde- 
ceived ? When he's through the porch, I'll follow 
him ; and, perhaps, Louisa shall not singly be a 
bride. 

SONG. 

Adieu, thou dreary pile, where never dies 

The sullen echo of repentant sighs ! 

Ye sister mourners of each lonely cell, 

Inured to hymns and sorrow, fare ye well ! 

For happier scenes I fly this darksome grove, 

To saints a prison, hut a tomb to love ! [Exit. 



SCENE IV.— A Court before the Priory. 
Enter Isaac, crossing the stage, Don Antonio following, 

Don Ant. What, my friend Isaac ! 

Isaac. What, Antonio ! wish me joy ! I have 
Louisa safe. 

Don Ant. Have you ? — I wish you joy with all 
my soul. 

Isaac. Yes, I am come here to procure a priest 
to marry us. 

Don Ant. So, then we are both on the same 
errand ; I am come to look for father Paul. 

Isaac. Ha ! I am glad on't — but, i'faith, he 
must tack me first ; my love is waiting. 

Don Ant. So is mine. — I left her in the porch. 

Isaac. Ay, but I am in haste to get back to Don 
Jerome. 

Don Ant. And so am I too. 

Isaac. Well, perhaps he'll save time, and marry 
us both together — or I'll be your father, and you 
shall be mine. Come along — but you're obliged to 
me for all this. 

Don Ant. Yes, yes. [Exeunt. 



SCENE V.— A Room in the Priori/. 

Father Paul, Father Francis, Father Augustine. 
and other Friars, discovered at a table drinking. 

GLEE AND CHORUS. 

This bottle's the sun of our table, 

His beams are rosy wine ; 
We, planets, that are not able 

Without his help to shine. 

Let mirth and glee abound ! 

You'll soon grow bright 

With borrow'd light, 

And shine as he goes round. 

Paul. Brother Francis, toss the botcle about, 
and give me your toast. 

Fran. Have we drank the abbess of St. Ur- 
suline ? 

Paul. Yes, yes ; she was the last. 

Fran. Then I'll give you the blue-eyed nun of 
St. Catharine's. 

Paul. With all my heart. — [Drinks.] Pray, 
brother Augustine, were there any benefactions left 
in my absence ? 

Aug. Don Juan Corduba has left a hundred 
ducats, to remember him in our masses. 

Paul. Has he ? let them be paid to our wine 
merchant, and we'll remember him in our cups, 
which will do just as well. Anything more ? 



54 



THE DUENNA. 



ACT III. 



Aug. Yes ; Baptista, the rich miser, who died 
last week, has bequeathed us a thousand pistoles, 
and the silver lamp he used in his own chamber, to 
burn before the image of St. Anthony. 

Paul. 'Twas well meant, but we'll employ his 
money better — Baptista's bounty shall ligbt the 
living, not the dead. — St. Anthony is not afraid to 
be left in the dark, though he was. — [Knocking.] 
See who's there. 

[Father Francis goes to the door and opens it. 

Enter Porter. 

Port. Here's one without, in pressing haste to 
speak with father Paul. 

Fran. Brother Paul ! 

[Father Paul comes from behind a curtain, with a 
glass of wine, and in his hand a piece of cake. 

Paul. Here ! how durst you, fellow, thus ab- 
ruptly break in upon our devotions ? 

Port. I thought they were finished. 

Paul. No, they were not. — Were they, brother 
Francis ? 

Fran. Not by a bottle each. 

Paul. But neither you nor your fellows mark 
how the hours go ; no, you mind nothing but the 
gratifying of your appetites ; ye eat and swill, and 
sleep, and gormandise, and thrive, while we are 
wasting in mortification. 

Port. We ask no more than nature craves. 

Paul. 'Tis false, ye have more appetites than 
hairs ! and your flushed, sleek, and pampered ap- 
pearance is the disgrace of our order — out on't ! 
If you are hungry, can't you be content with the 
wholesome roots of the earth ; and if you are dry, 
isn't there the crystal spring? — [Drinks.] Put 
this away, — [Gives the glass"] and show me where 
I'm wanted. — [Porter draws the glass. — Paul, 
going, turns.~] So, you would have drank it, if 
there had been any left ! Ah, glutton ! glutton ! 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE VI.— The Court before the Priory. 
Enter Isaac and Don Antonio. 

Isaac. A plaguy while coming, this same father 
Paul ! — He's detained at vespers, I suppose, poor 
fellow. 

Don Ant. No, here he comes. 

Enter Father Paul. 
Good father Paul, I crave your blessing. 

Isaac. Yes, good father Paul, we are come to 
beg a favour. 

Paul. What is it, pray ? 

Isaac. To marry us, good father Paul ; and in 
truth thou dost look the very priest of Hymen. 

Paul. In short, I may be called so ; for I deal 
in repentance and mortification. 

Isaac. No, no, thou seemest an officer of Hy- 
men, because thy presence speaks content and good 
humour. 

Paul. Alas ! my appearance is deceitful. — Bloat- 
ed I am, indeed ! for fasting is a windy recreation, 
and it hath swollen me like a bladder. 

Don Ant. But thou hast a good fresh colour in 
thy face, father ; rosy, i'faith ! 

Paul. Yes, I have blushed for mankind, till the 
hue of my shame is as fixed as their vices. 

Isaac. Good man ! 



Paul. And I have laboured too, but to what 
purpose ? they continue to sin under my very 
nose. 

Isaac. Efecks, father, I should have guessed as 
much, for your nose seems to be put to the blush 
more than any other part of your face. 

Paul. Go, you're a wag ! 

Don Ant. But, to the purpose, father — will you 
officiate for us ? 

Paul. To join young people thus clandestinely 
is not safe : and, indeed, I have in my heart many 
weighty reasons against it. 

Don Ant. And I have in my hand many weighty 
reasons for it. — Isaac, haven't you an argument or 
two in our favour about you ? 

Isaac. Yes, yes ; here is a most unanswerable 
purse. 

Paul. For shame ! you make me angry : you 
forget who I am, and when importunate people 
have forced their trash — ay, into this pocket, here 
— or into this — why, then the sin was theirs. — 
[They put money into his pockets.] Fy, now 
how you distress me ! I would return it, but 
that I must touch it that way, and so wrong my 
oath. 

Don Ant. Now then, come with us. 

Isaac. Ay, now give us your title to joy and 
rapture. 

Paid. Well, when your hour of repentance comes, 
don't blame me. 

Don Ant. [Aside.] No bad caution to my 
friend Isaac. — [Aloud.] Well, well, father, do you 
do your part, and I'll abide the consequence. 

Isaac. Ay, and so will I. 

Enter Donna Louisa, running. 

Don. Louisa. O Antonio, Ferdinand is at the 
porch, and inquiring for us. 

Isaac. Who ? Don Ferdinand ! he's not inquir- 
ing for me, I hope. 

Don Ant. Fear not, my love ; I'll soon pacify 
him. 

Isaac. Egad, you won't — Antonio, take my ad- 
vice, and run away ; this Ferdinand is the most 
unmerciful dog ; and has the cursedest long sword ! 
— and, upon my soul, he comes on purpose to cut 
your throat. 

Don Ant. Never fear} never fear. 

Isaac. Well, you may stay if you will; but I'll 
get some one to marry me ; for, by St. Iago, he 
shall never marry me again, while I am master of 
a pair of heels. 

[Runs out.— Donna Louisa lets down her veil. 

Enter Don Ferdinand. 

Don Ferd. So, sir, I have met with you at last. 

Don Ant. Well, sir. 

Don Ferd. Base, treacherous man ! whence can 
a false, deceitful soul, like yours, borrow con- 
fidence to look so steadily on the man you've 
injured? 

Don Ant. Ferdinand, you are too warm : — 'tis 
true you find me on the point of wedding one I 
love beyond my life ; but no argument of mine pre- 
vailed on her to elope — I scorn deceit, as much as 
you. — By heaven I knew not she had left her fa- 
ther's till I saw her ! 

Don Ferd. What a mean excuse ! You have 
wronged your friend, then, for one, whose wanton 



SCENE VII. 



THE DUENNA. 



55 



forwardness anticipated your treachery — of this, 
indeed, your Jew pander informed me ; but let your 
conduct be consistent, and since you have dared to 
do a wrong, follow me, and show you have a spirit 
to avow it. 

Don. Louisa. Antonio, I perceive his mistake — 
leave him to me. 

Paul. Friend, you are rude, to interrupt the 
union of two willing hearts. 

Don Ferd. No, meddling priest ! the hand he 
seeks is mine. 

Paul. If so, I'll proceed no further. — Lady, did 
you ever promise this youth your hand ? 

[To Donna Louisa, who shakes her head. 

Don Ferd. Clara, I thank you for your silence 
— I would not have heard your tongue avow such 
falsity ; be't your punishment to remember I have 
not reproached you. 

Enter Donna Clara, veiled. 

Don. Clara. What mockery is this ? 
Don Ferd. Antonio, you are protected now, but 
we shall meet. 
[Going, Donna Clara holds one arm, and Donna Louisa 
the other. 

DUET. 

Bon. Louisa. Turn thee round, I pray thee, 

Calm awhile thy rage. 
Don. Clara. I must help to stay thee, 

And thy wrath assuage. 

Don. Louisa. Couldst thou not discover 

One so dear to thee ? 
Don. Clara. Canst thou he a lovei , 

And thus fly from me ? [Both unveil. 

Don Ferd. How's this ! my sister ! Clara too 
.—I'm confounded. 

Don. Louisa. 'Tis even so, good brother. 

Paul. How ! what impiety ? did the man want 
to marry his own sister ? 

Don. Louisa. And aren't you ashamed of your- 
self not to know your own sister ? 

Don. Clara. To drive away your own mis- 
tress — 

Don. Louisa. Don't you see how jealousy blinds 
people ? 

Don. Clara. Ay, and will you ever be jealous 
again ? 

Don Ferd. Never — never ! — You, sister, I 
know will forgive me — but how, Clara, shall I 
presume — 

Don. Clara. No, no, just now you told me not 
to tease you — " Who do you want, good signor ?" 
"Not you, not you!" — Oh, you blind wretch ! 
but swear never to be jealous again, and I'll forgive 
you. 

Don. Ferd. By all- 
Don. Clara. There, that will do — you'll keep 
the oath just as well. [Gives her hand. 

Don. Louisa. But, brother, here is one, to whom 
some apology is due. 

Don Ferd. Antonio, I am ashamed to think — 

Don Ant. Not a word of excuse, Ferdinand 
— I have not been in love myself without 
learning that a lover's anger should never be 
resented. — But come — let us retire with this good 
father, and we'll explain to you the cause of this 
error. 



GLEE AND CHORUS. 

Oft does Hymen smile to hear 

"Wordy vows of feign'd regard ; 
Well he knows when they're sincere, 

Never slow to give reward : 
For his glory is to prove 
Kind to those who wed for love. [Exeunt. 



SCENE VII.— A Grand Saloon in Don 

Jerome's House. 

Enter Don Jerome, Lopez, and Servants. 

Don Jer. Be sure now let everything be in the 

best order — let all my servants have on their 

merriest faces — but tell them to get as little drunk 

as possible, till after supper. — {Exeunt Servants.] 

So, Lopez, where's your master ? shan't we have 

him at supper ? 

Lop. Indeed, I believe, not, sir — he's mad, I 
doubt ; I'm sure he has frighted me from him. 

Don Jer. Ay, ay, he's after some wench, I 
suppose ? a young rake ! Well, well, we'll be merry 
without him. [Exit Lopez. 



Enter Servant. 
Ser. Sir, here is signor Isaac. 
Enter Isaac. 



[Exit- 



Don Jer. So, my dear son-in-law — there, take j 
my blessing and forgiveness — But where's my 
daughter ? where's Louisa ? 

Isaac. She's without, impatient for a blessing, 
but almost afraid to enter. 

Don Jer. Oh, fly and bring her in. — {Exit 
Isaac] Poor girl, I long to see her pretty face. 

Isaac. [ Without.] Come, my charmer ! my 
trembling angel ! 

Re-enter Isaac with Duenna ; Don Jerome runs to meet 
them ; she kneels. 

Don Jer. Come to my arms, my — [Starts back.] 
Why, who the devil have we here ? 

Isaac. Nay, Don Jerome, you promised her 
forgiveness ; see how the dear creature droops ! 

Don Jer. Droops indeed ! Why, Gad take me, 
this is old Margaret ! — But where's my daughter, 
where's Louisa ? 

Isaac. Why, here, before your eyes — nay, don't 
be abashed, my sweet wife ! 

Don Jer. Wife with a vengeance ! Why, zounds, 
you have not married the Duenna ! 

Duen. [Kneeling.] Oh, dear papa ! you'll not 
disown me sure ! 

Don Jer. Papa ! papa 1 Why, zounds, your 
impudence is as great as your ugliness ! 

Isaac. Rise, my charmer, go throw your snowy 
arms about his neck, and convince him you are — 

Duen. Oh, sir, forgive me ! [Embraces him. 

Don Jer. Help ! murder ! 

Enter Servants. 

Ser. What's the matter, sir ? 

Don Jer. Why, here, this damned Jew has 
brought an old harridan to strangle me. 

Isaac. Lord, it is his own daughter, and he is so 
hard-hearted he won't forgive her! 

Enter Don Antonio and Donna Louisa ; they kneel. 

Don Jer. Zounds and fury ! what's here now ? 
who sent for you, sir, and who the devil are you ? 

Don Ant. This lady's husband, sir. 

Isaac. Ay, that he is, I'll be sworn ; for I left 



5C> 



THE DUENNA. 



ACT HI 



thein with a priest, and was to have given her 
away. 

Don Jer. You were ? 

Isaac. Ay ; that's my honest friend, Antonio ; 
and that's the little girl I told you I had hampered 
him with. 

Don Jer. Why, you are either drunk or mad — 
this is my daughter. 

Isaac. No, no ; 'tis you are both drunk and mad 
I think — here's your daughter. 

Don Jer. Hark ye, old iniquity ! will you explain 
all this, or not ? 

Duen. Come then, Don Jerome, I will — though 
our habits might inform you all — look on your 
daughter, there, and on me. 

Isaac. What's this I hear ? 

Duen. The truth is, that in your passion this 
morning, you made a small mistake ; for you turned 
your daughter out of doors, and locked up your 
humble servant. 

Isaac. O Lud ! O Lud ! here's a pretty fellow, 
to turn his daughter out of doors, instead of an old 
Duenna ! 

Don Jer. And, O Lud ! O Lud ! here's a pretty 
fellow, to marry an old Duenna instead of my 
daughter ! — but how came the rest about ? 

Duen. I have only to add, that I remained in 
your daughter's place, and had the good fortune 
to engage the affections of my sweet husband here. 

Isaac. Her husband ! why, you old witch, do you 
think I'll be your husband now ? this is a trick, a 
cheat! and you ought all to be ashamed of yourselves. 

Don Ant. Hark ye, Isaac, do you dare to com- 
plain of tricking ? — Don Jerome, I give you my 
word, this cunning Portuguese has brought all this 
upon himself, by endeavouring to overreach you, 
by getting your daughter's fortune, without making 
any settlement in return. 

Don Jer. Overreach me ! 

Don. Louisa. 'Tis so, indeed, sir, and we can 
prove it to you. 

Don Jer. Why, Gad take me, it must be so, or 
he could never have put up with such a face as 
Margaret's — so, little Solomon, I wish you joy of 
your wife, with all my soul. 

Don. Louisa. Isaac, tricking is all fair in love — 
let you alone for the plot ! 

Don Ant. A cunning dog, aren't you ? A sly 
little villain, he ? 

Don. Lotiisa. Roguish, perhaps ; but keen, 
devilish keen ! 

Don Jer. Yes, yes ; his aunt always called him 
little Solomon. 

Isaac. Why, the plagues of Egypt upon you 
all ! — but do you think I'll submit to such an 
imposition ? 

Don Ant. Isaac, one serious word — you'd better 
be content as you are ; for, believe me, you will 
find, that, in the opinion of the world, there is not 
a fairer subject for contempt and ridicule, than a 
knave become the dupe of his own art. 

Isaac. I don't care — I'll not endure this. Don 
Jerome, 'tis you have done this — you would be so 
cursed positive about the beauty of her you locked 
up, and all the time, I told you she was as old as 
my mother, and as ugly as the devil. 

Duen. Why, you little insignificant reptile ! — 

Don Jer. That's right ! — attack him, Margaret. 

Duen. Dare such a thing as you pretend to talk of 
beauty ? — A walking rouleau ! — a body that seems 



to owe all its consequence to the dropsy ! — a pair 
of eyes like two dead beetles in a wad of brown 
dough ! — a beard like an artichoke, with dry shri- 
velled jaws, that would disgrace the mummy of a 
monkey ! 

Don Jer. Well done, Margaret ! 

Duen. But you shall know that I have a bro- 
ther who wears a sword — and, if you don't do me 
justice — 

Isaac. Fire seize your brother, and you too ! 
I'll fly to Jerusalem to avoid you ! 

Duen. Fly where you will, I'll follow you. 

Don Jer. Throw your snowy arms about him, 
Margaret. — \Exeunt Isaac and Duenna.] But, 
Louisa, are you really married to this modest gen- 
tleman ? 

Don. Louisa. Sir, in obedience to your com- 
mands, I gave him my hand within this hour. 

Don Jer. My commands ! 

Don Ant. Yes, sir ; here is your consent, under 
your own hand. 

Don Jer. How ! would you rob me of my child 
by a trick, a false pretence ? and do you think to 
get her fortune by the same means ? Why, 'slife, 
you are as great a rogue as Isaac ! 

Don Ant. No, Don Jerome ; though I have 
profited by this paper, in gaining your daughter's 
hand, I scorn to obtain her fortune by deceit. 
There, sir. — [Gives a letter. ] Now give her your 
blessing for a dower, and all the little I possess 
shall be settled on her in return. Had you wedded 
her to a prince, he could do no more. 

Don Jer. Why, Gad take me, but you are a very 
extraordinary fellow ! But have you the impu- 
dence to suppose no one can do a generous action 
but yourself ? — Here, Louisa, tell this proud fool 
of yours, that he's the only man I know that would 
renounce your fortune ; and, by my soul, he's the 
only man in Spain that's worthy of it. — There, 
bless you both : I'm an obstinate old fellow when 
I'm in the wrong ; but you shall now find me as 
steady in the right, 

Enter Don Ferdinand and Donna Clara. 
Another wonder still ! — Why, sirrah ! Ferdinand, 
you have not stole a nun, have you ? 

Don Ferd. She is a nun in nothing but her 
habit, sir — look nearer, and you will perceive 'tis 
Clara d'Almanza, Don Guzman's daughter; and, with 
pardon for stealing a wedding, she is also my wife. 

Don Jer. Gadsbud, and a great fortune ! — Fer- 
dinand, you are a prudent young rogue, and I 
forgive you : and, ifecks, you are a pretty little 
damsel. Give your father-in-law a kiss, you 
smiling rogue ! 

Don. Clara. . There, old gentleman ; and now 
mind you behave well to us. 

Don Jer. Ifecks, those lips han't been chilled 
by kissing beads !— Egad, I believe I shall grow 
the best-humoured fellow in Spain ! — Lewis ! 
Sancho ! Carlos ! d'ye hear ? are all my doors 
thrown open ? — Our children's weddings are the 
only holidays our age can boast ; and then we 
drain, with pleasure, the little stock of spirits time 
has left us. — [Music within.] But see, here come 
our friends and neighbours ! 

Enter Masqueraders. 
And, i'faith, we'll make a night on't, with wine, 
and, dance, and catches — then old and young shall 
join us. 






SCENE VII. 



THE DUENNA. 



5* 



FINALE. 

Bon Jer. Come now for jest and smiling, 
Both old and young beguiling, 

Let us laugh and play, so blithe and gay, 
Till we banish care away. 

Louisa. Thus crown'd with dance and song, 
The hours shall glide along, 

With a heart at ease, merry, merry glees 
Can never fail to please. 

Don Ferd. Each bride with blushes glowing, 
Our wine as rosy flowing, 

Let us laugh and play, so blithe and gay, 
Till we banish care away. 



Bon Ant. Then healths to every friend, 
The night's repast shall end, 

With a heart at ease, merry, merry glees 
Can never fail to please. 

Clara, Nor, while we are so joyous, 
Shall anxious fear annoy us ; 

Let us laugh and play, so blithe and gay, 
Till we banish care away. 

Bon Jer. For generous guests like these 
Accept the wish to please ; 

So we'll laugh and play, so blithe and gay, 
Your smiles drive care away. 

[Exeunt omnes. 



A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS, 

AS ORIGINALLY ACTED AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE IN 1777. 



Lord Foppington 
sfr tunbelly clumsy 
Colonel Townly 
Loveless .... 
Tom Fashion . . 



Mr. Dodd. 
Mr. Moody. 
Mr. Brereton. 
Mr. Smith. 
Mr. J. Palmer. 



La Varole Mr. Burton. 

Lory Mr. Baddeley. 

Probe ...... . . Mr. Parsons. 

Mendlegs Mr. Norris. 

Jeweller Mr. Lamash. 



Shoemaker Mr. Carpenter. 

Tailor Mr. Parker. 

Amanda Mrs. Robinson. 

Berinthia Miss Farren. 

Miss Hoyden Mrs. Abington. 

Mrs. Coupler Mrs. Booth. 

Nurse Mrs. Bradshaw. 

Sempstress, Postilion, Maid, and Servants. 



SCENE, — Scarborough and its Neighbourhood. 



PROLOGUE, 



SPOKEN BY MR. KING. 



What various transformations we remark, 
From east Whitechapel to the west Hyde-park ! 
Men, women, children, houses, signs, and fashions, 
State, stage, trade, taste, the humours, and the 

passions ; 
The Exchange, 'Change-alley, wheresoe'er you're 

ranging, 
Court, city, country, all are changed or changing : 
The streets, sometime ago, were paved with stones, 
Which, aided by a hackney-coach, half broke your 
The purest lovers then indulged no bliss ; [bones. 
They run great hazard, if they stole a kiss. 
One chaste salute ! — the damsel cried — O fy ! 
As they approach'd — slap went the coach awry — 
Poor Sylvia got a bump, and Damon a black eye. 

But now weak nerves in hackney-coaches roam, 
And the cramm'd glutton snores, unjolted, home : 
Of former times, that polish* d thing, a beau, 
Is metamorphosed now from top to toe ; 
Then the full flaxen wig, spread o'er the shoulders 
Conceal'd the shallow head from the beholders ! 
But now the whole's reversed — each fop appears, 
Cropp'd and trimm'd up, exposing head and ears : 
The buckle then its modest limits knew, 
Now, like the ocean, dreadful to the view, 
Hath broke its bounds, and swallows up the shoe ; 



The wearer's foot, like his once fine estate, 
Is almost lost, the encumbrance is so great. 
Ladies may smile — are they not in the plot ? 
The bounds of nature haye not they forgot ? 
Were they design'd to be, when put together, 
Made up, like shuttlecocks, of cork and feather ? 
Their pale-faced grandmamas appear'd with grace, 
When dawning blushes rose upon the face ; 
No blushes now their once-loved station seek ; 
The foe is in possession of the cheek ! 
No heads, of old, too high in feather'd state, 
Hinder'd the fair to pass the lowest gate ; 
A church to enter now, they must be bent, 
If ever they should try the experiment. 

As change thus circulates throughout the na- 
tion, 
Some plays may justly call for alteration ; 
At least to draw some slender covering o'er 
That graceless wit* which was too bare before -. 
Those writers well and wisely use their pens, 
Who turn our wantons into Magdalens ; 
And howsoever wicked wits revile 'em, 
We hope to find in you their stage asylum. 



And Van wants grace, who never wanted wit. 



Pope. 



A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH. 



59 



ACT I. 



SCENE I.— The Hall of an Inn. 



Enter Tom Fashion and Lory, Postilion following with a 
portmanteau. 

Fash. Lory, pay the postboy, and take the port- 
manteau. 

Lory. [Aside to Tom Fashion.] Faith, sir, we 
had better let the postboy take the portmanteau 
and pay himself. 

Fash. [Aside to Lory.] Why, sure, there's 
something left in it ! 

Lory. Not a rag, upon my honour, sir ! — We 
eat the last of your wardrobe at Newmalton — and, 
if we had had twenty miles further to go, our next 
meal must have been of the cloak-bag. 

Fash. Why, 'sdeath, it appears full ! 

Lory. Yes, sir — I made bold to stuff it with 
hay, to save appearances, and look like baggage. 

Fash. [Aside.] What the devil shall I do ?— 
[Aloud.] Hark'ee, boy, what's the chaise ? 

Post. Thirteen shillings, please your honour. 

Fash. Can you give me change for a guinea ? 

Post. O yes, sir. 

Lory. [Aside.] So, what will he do now ? — 
[Aloud.] Lord, sir, you had better let the boy be 
paid below. 

Fash. Why, as you say, Lory, I believe it will 
be as well. 

Lory. Yes, yes ; I'll tell them to discharge you 
below, honest friend. 

Post. Please your honour, there are the turn- 
pikes too. 

Fash. Ay, ay, the turnpikes by all means. 

Post. And 1 hope your honour will order me 
something for myself. 

Fash. To be sure ; bid them give you a crown. 

Lory. Yes, yes — my master doesn't care what 
you charge them — so get along you — 

Post. And there's the hostler, your honour. 

Lory. Psha ! damn the hostler ! — would you 
impose upon the gentleman's generosity %— [Pushes 
him out.] A rascal, to be so cursed ready with his 
change ! 

Fash. Why, faith, Lory, he had nearly posed me. 

Lory. Well, sir, we are arrived at Scarborough, 
not worth a guinea ! I hope you'll own yourself a 
happy man — you have outlived all your cares. 

Fash. How so, sir ? 
. Lory. Why you have nothing left to take care of. 

Fash. Yes, sirrah, I have myself and you to 
take care of still. 

Lory. Sir, if you could prevail with somebody 
else to do that for you, I fancy we might both fare 
the better for it. But now, sir, for my lord Fop- 
pington, your elder brother. 

Fash. Damn my eldest brother ! 

Lory. With all my heart ; but get him to redeem 
your annuity, however. Look you, sir, you must 
wheedle him, or you must starve. 

Fash. Look you, sir, I will neither wheedle him 
nor starve. 

Lory. Why what will you do, then ? 

Fash. Cut his throat, or get some one to do it 
for me. 

Lory. 'Gad so, sir, I'm glad to find I was not 



so well acquainted with the strength of your con- 
science as with the weakness of your purse. 

Fash. Why, art thou so impenetrable a block- 
head as to believe he'll help me with a farthing ? 

Lory. Not if you treat him de haut en has, as 
you used to do. 

Fash. Why, how wouldst have me treat him ? 

Lory. Like a trout — tickle him. 

Fash. I can't flatter. 

Lory. Can you starve ? 

Fash. Yes. 

Lory. I can't — good-bye t'ye, sir. 

Fash. Stay— thou'lt distract me. But who 
comes here — my old friend, colonel Townly. 

Enter Colonel Townly. 

My dear colonel, I am rejoiced to meet you 
here. 

Col. Town. Dear Tom, this is an unexpected 
pleasure ! ; — What, are you come to Scarborough to 
be present at your brother's wedding ? 

Lory. Ah, sir, if it had been his funeral, we 
should have come with pleasure ! 

Col. Town. What, honest Lory, are you with 
your master still ? 

Lory. Yes, sir, I have been starving with him 
ever since I saw your honour last. 

Fash. Why, Lory is an attached rogue — there's 
no getting rid of him. 

Lory. True, sir, as my master says, there's no 
seducing me from his service. — [ Aside.] Till he's 
able to pay me my wages. 

Fash. Go, go, sir — and take care of the baggage. 

Lory. Yes, sir — the baggage ! — O Lord ! I sup- 
pose, sir, I must charge the landlord to be very 
particular where he stows this ? 

Fash. Get along, you rascal, — [Exit Lory, 
with the portmanteau.] But, colonel, are you 
acquainted with my proposed sister-in-law ? 

Col. Town. Only by character — her father, sir 
Tunbelly Clumsy, lives within a quarter of a mile of 
this place, in a lonely old house j which nobody comes 
near. She never goes abroad, nor sees company at 
home ; to prevent all misfortunes, she has her 
breeding within doors ; the parson of the parish 
teaches her to play upon the dulcimer, the clerk to 
sing, her nurse to dress, and her father to dance ; — 
in short, nobody has free admission there but our 
old acquaintance, mother Coupler, who has pro- 
cured your brother this match, and is, I believe, a 
distant relation of sir Tunbelly's. 

Fash. But is her fortune so considerable ? 

Col. Town. Three thousand a year, and a good 
sum of money, independent of her father, beside. 

Fash. 'Sdeath ! that my old acquaintance, dame 
Coupler, could not have thought of me, as well as 
my brother, for such a prize. 

Col. Town. Egad, I wouldn't swear that you are 
too late — his lordship, I know, hasn't yet seen 
the lady — and, I believe, has quarrelled with his 
patroness. 

Fash. My dear colonel, what an idea have you 
started ! 

Col. Town. Pursue it, if you can, and I promise 
you you shall have my assistance ; for besides my 



60 



A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH. 



ACT I. 



natural contempt for his lordship, I have at present 
the enmity of a rival towards him. 

Fash. What, has he been addressing your old 
flame, the widow Berinthia ? 

Col. Town. Faith, Tom, I am at present most 
whimsically circumstanced. I came here a month 
ago to meet the lady you mention ; but she failing 
in her promise, I, partly from pique and partly 
from idleness, have been diverting my chagrin by 
offering up incense to the beauties of Amanda, our 
friend Loveless's wife. 

Fash. I never have seen her, but have heard her 
spoken of as a youthful wonder of beauty and pru- 
dence. 

Col. Town. She is so indeed ; and Loveless 
being too careless and insensible of the treasure he 
possesses — my lodging in the same house has given 
me a thousand opportunities of making my assi- 
duities acceptable : so that in less than a fortnight, 
I began to bear my disappointment from the widow 
with the most christian resignation. 

Fash. And Berinthia has never appeared ? 

Col. Town. Oh, there's the perplexity ! for just 
as I began not to care whether ever I saw her again 
or not., last night she arrived. 

Fash. And instantly reassumed her empire. 

Col. Town. No, faith — we met — but the lady 
not condescending to give me any serious reasons 
for having fooled me for a month, I left her in a 
huff. 

Fash. Well, well, I'll answer for it she'll soon 
resume her power, especially as friendship will 
prevent your pursuing the other too far. — But my 
coxcomb of a brother is an admirer of Amanda's 
too, is he ? 

Col. Town. Yes, and I believe is most heartily 
despised by her. But come with me, and you 
shall see her and your old friend Loveless. 

Fash. I must pay my respects to his lordship — 
perhaps you can direct me to his lodgings. 

Col. Town. Come with me ; 1 shall pass by it. 

Fash. I wish you could pay this visit for me, or 
could tell me what I should say Jx> him. 

Col. Town. Say nothing to him — apply yourself 
to his bag, his sword, his feather, his snuffbox ; 
and when you are well with them, desire him to 
lend you a thousand pounds, and I'll engage you 
prosper. 

Fash. 'Sdeath and furies ! why was that cox- 
comb thrust into the world before me ? O For- 
tune, Fortune, thou art a jilt, by Gad ! [Eaeunt. 



SCENE II. — Lord Foppington's Dressing-room. 

Enter Lord Foppington in Ms nightgown, and 
La Varole. 

Lord Fop. [Aside.] Well, 'tis an unspeakable 
pleasure to be a man of quality — strike me dumb ! 
Even the boors of this northern spa have learned 
the respect due to a title. — {Aloud.} La Varole ! 

La Var. Milor — 

Lord Fop. You han't yet been at Muddymoat- 
hall, to announce my arrival, have you ? 

La Var. Not yet, milor. 

Lord Fop. Then you need not go till Saturday 
— \Ex%t La Varole] as I am in no particular 
haste to view my intended sposa. I shall sacrifice 
a day or two more to the pursuit of my friend 



Loveless's wife. Amanda is a charming creature, 
— strike me ugly ! and if I have any discernment 
in the world, she thinks no less of my lord Fop- 
pington. 

Re-enter La Varole. 

La Var. Milor, de shoemaker, de tailor, de 
hosier, de sempstress, de peru, be all ready, if your 
lordship please to dress. 

Lord Fop. 'Tis well ; admit them. 

La Var. Hey, messieurs, entrez ! 

Enter Tailor, Shoemaker, Sempstress, Jeweller, and 
Mendlegs. 

Lord Fop. So, gentlemen, I hope you have all 
taken pains to show yourselves masters in your 
professions ? 

Tai. I think I may presume to say, sir — 

La Var. Milor, you clown you ! 

Tai. My lord— I ask your lordship's pardon, 
my lord. I hope, my lord, your lordship will be 
pleased to own I have brought your lordship as 
accomplished a suit of clothes as ever peer of 
England wore, my lord — will your lordship please 
to view 'em now ? 

Lord Fop. Ay ; but let my people dispose the 
glasses so that I may see myself before and behind ; 
for I love to see myself all round. 

[Puts on Ms clothes. 

Enter Tom Fashion and Lory. They remain behind, 
conversing apart. 

Fash. Heyday ! what the devil have we here ? 
Sure my gentleman's grown a favourite at court, 
he has got so many people at his levee. 

Lory. Sir, these people come in order to make 
him a favourite at court — they are to establish him 
with the ladies. 

Fash. Good Heaven ! to what an ebb of taste 
are women fallen, that it should be in the power of 
a laced coat to recommend a gallant to them ! 

Lory. Sir, tailors and hair-dressers debauch all 
the women. 

Fash. Thou sayest true.— But now for my re- 
ception. 

Lord Fop. Death and eternal tortures ! Sir — I 
say the coat is too wide here by a foot. 

Tai. My lord, if it had been tighter, 'twould 
neither have hooked nor buttoned. 

Lord Fop. Rat the hooks and buttons, sir ! Can 
anything be worse than this ? — As Gad shall jedge 
me, it hangs on my shoulders like a chairman's 
surtout. 

Tai. 'Tis not for me to dispute your lordship's 
fancy. 

Lory. There, sir, observe what respect does. 

Fash. Respect ! damn him for a coxcomb ! — 
But let's accost him. — [Coming forward.] Brother, 
I'm your humble servant. 

Lord Fop. O Lard, Tarn ! I did not expect you 
in England — brother, I'm glad to see you. — But 
what has brought you to Scarborough, Tarn ? — 
[To the Tailor.] Look you, sir, I shall never be 
reconciled to this nauseous wrapping-gown, there- 
fore pray get me another suit with all possible 
expedition; for this is my eternal aversion. — [Exit 
Tailor.] Well but, Tarn, you don't tell me what 
has driven you to Scarborough. — Mrs. Calico, are 
not you of my mind ? 

Semp. Directly, my lord. — I hope your lordship 
is pleased with your ruffles ? 



A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH. 



61 



Lord Fop. In love with them, stap my vitals ! — 
Bring my bill, you shall be paid to-morrow. 

Semp. I humbly thank your lordship. [Exit. 

Lord Fop. Hark thee, shoemaker, these shoes 
aren't ugly, but they don't fit me. 

Shoe. My lord, I think they fit you very well. 

Lord Fop. They hurt me just below the instep. 

Shoe. [Feels his foot.]; No, my lord, they don't 
hurt you there. 

Lord Fop. I tell thee they pinch me execrably. 

Shoe. Why then, my lord, if those shoes pinch 
you, I'll be damned. 

Lord Fop. Why, wilt thou undertake to persuade 
me I cannot feel ? 

Shoe. Your lordship may please to feel what you 
think fit, but that shoe does not hurt you — I think 
I understand my trade. 

Lord Fop. Now, by all that's good and power- 
ful, thou art an incomprehensive coxcomb ! — but 
thou makest good shoes, and so I'll bear with thee. 

Shoe. My lord, I have worked for half the people 
of quality in this town these twenty years, and 'tis 
very hard I shouldn't know when a shoe hurts, 
and when it don't. 

Lord Fop. Well, prithee begone about thy busi- 
ness. — [Exit Shoemaker.] Mr. Mendlegs, a word 
with you. — The calves of these stockings are 
thickened a little too much ; they make my legs 
look like a porter's. 

Mend. My lord, methinks they look mighty well. 

Lord Fop. Ay, but you are not so good a judge 
of those things as I am — I have studied them all 
my life — therefore pray let the next be the thick- 
ness of a crown-piece less. 

Mend. Indeed, my lord, they are the same kind I 
had the honour to furnishyour lordship with in town. 

Lord Fop. Very possibly, Mr. Mendlegs ; but 
that was in the beginning of the winter, and you 
should always remember, Mr. Hosier, that if you 
make a nobleman's spring legs as robust as his 
autumnal calves, you commit a manstrous impro- 
priety, and make no allowance for the fatigues of 
the winter. {Exit Mendlegs. 

Jewel. I hope, my lord, those buckles have had 
the unspeakable satisfaction of being honoured with 
your lordship's approbation ? 

Lord Fop. Why, they are of a pretty fancy ; but 
don't you think them rather of the smallest- ? 

Jewel. My lord, they could not well be larger, to 
keep on your lordship's shoe. 

Lord Fop. My good sir, you forget that these 
matters are not as they used to be ; formerly, in- 
deed, the buckle was a sort of machine, intended to 
keep on the shoe ; but the case is now quite 
reversed, and the shoe is of no earthly use, but to 
keep on the buckle. — Now give me my watches, 
and the business of the morning will be pretty well 
over. [Exit Jeweller. 

Fash. [Aside to Lory.] Well, Lory, what dost 
think on't ? — a very friendly reception from a bro- 
ther, after three years' absence ! 

Lory. [Aside to Tom Fashion.] Why, sir, 'tis 
your own fault — here you have stood ever since you 
came in, and have not commended any one thing 
that belongs to him. ^ 

Fash. [Aside to Lory.] Nor ever shall, while 
they belong to a coxcomb.— [To Lord Fopping- 
ton.] Now your people of business are gone, bro- 
ther, I hope I may obtain a quarter of an hour's 
audience of you ? 



Lord Fop. Faith, Tam, I must beg you'll excuse 
me at this time, for I have an engagement which I 
would not break for the salvation of mankind. — ■ 
Hey ! — there ! — is my carriage at the door ? — You'll 
excuse me, brother. [Going. 

Fash. Shall you be back to dinner ? 

Lord Fop. As Gad shall jedge me, I can't tell ; 
for it is passible I may dine with some friends at 
Donner's. 

Fash. Shall I meet you there ? for I must needs 
talk with you. 

Lord Fop. That I'm afraid mayn't be quite so 
praper ; for those I commonly eat with are a people 
of nice conversation ; and you know, Tam, your 
education has been a little at large. — But there are 
other ordinaries in town — very good beef ordinaries 
— I suppose, Tam, you can eat beef? — However, 
dear Tam, I'm glad to see thee in England, stap 
my vitals ! [Exit, La Vakole following. 

Fash. Hell and furies ! is this to be borne ? 

Lory. Faith, sir, I could almost have given him 
a knock o' the pate myself. 

Fash. 'Tis enough ; I will now show you the 
excess of my passion, by being very calm. — Come, 
Lory, lay your loggerhead to mine, and, in cold 
blood, let us contrive his destruction. 

Lory. Here comes a head, sir, would contrive it 
better than both our loggerheads, if she would but 
join in the confederacy. 

Fash. By this light, madam Coupler ! she seems 
dissatisfied at something : let us observe her. 

Enter Mrs. Coupler. 

Mrs. Coup. So ! I am likely to be well rewarded 
for my services, truly ; my suspicions, I find, were 
but too just. — What ! refuse to advance me a petty 
sum, when I am upon the point of making him 
master of a galleon ! But let him look to the con- 
sequences ; an ungrateful narrow-minded coxcomb ! 

Fash. So he is, upon my soul, old lady ; it must 
be my brother you speak of. 

Mrs. Coup. Ha ! — stripling, how came you 
here ? What, hast spent all, eh ? And art thou 
come to dun his lordship for assistance ? 

Fash. No, I want somebody's- assistance to cut 
his lordship's throat, without the risk of being 
hanged for him. 

Mrs. Coup. Egad, sirrah, I could help thee to 
do him almost as good a turn, without the danger 
of being burned in the hand for't. 

Fash. How — how, old mischief? 

Mrs. Coup. Why, you must know I have done 
you the kindness to make up a match for your 
brother. 

Fash. I am very much beholden to you truly ! 

Mrs. Coup. You may before the wedding-day 
yet : the lady is a great heiress, the match is con- 
cluded, the writings are drawn, and his lordship is 
come hither to put the finishing hand to the 
business. 

Fash. I understand as much. 

Mrs. Coup. Now, you must know, stripling, your 
brother's a knave. 

Fash. Good. 

Mrs. Coup. He has given me a bond of a thou- 
sand pounds for helping him to this fortune, and 
has promised me as mueh more, in ready money, 
upon the day of the marriage ; which, I understand 
by a friend, he never designs to pay me ; and his just 
now refusing to pay me a part is a proof of it. If, 



62 



A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH. 



therefore, you will be a generous young rogue, 
and secure me five thousand pounds, I'll help you to 
the lady. 

Fash. And how the devil wilt thou do that ? 

Mrs. Coup. Without the devil's aid, I warrant 
thee. Thy brother's face not one of the family 
ever saw ; the whole business has been managed by 
me, and all his letters go through my hands. Sir 
Tunbelly Clumsy, my relation — for that's the old 
gentleman's name — is apprised of his lordship's 
being down here, and expects him to-morrow to 
receive his daughter's hand ; but the peer, I find, 
means to bait here a few days longer, to recover the 
fatigue of his journey, I suppose. Now you shall 
go to Muddymoat-hall in his place.— I'll give you 
a letter of introduction : and if you don't marry 
the girl before sunset, you deserve to be hanged 
before morning. 

Fash. Agreed ! agreed ! and for thy reward — 

Mrs. Coup. "Well, well ; — though I warrant thou 
hast not a farthing of money in thy pocket now — 
no — one may see it in thy face. 

Fash. Not a sous, by Jupiter ! 

Mrs. Coup. Must I advance then? Well, be 
at my lodgings, next door, this evening, and I'll 
see what may be done — we'll sign and seal, and 
when I have given thee some further instructions, 
thou shall hoist sail and begone. [Exit. 

Fash. So, Lory, Fortune, thou seest, at last 
takes care of merit ; we are in a fair way to be 
great people. 

Lory. Ay, sir, if the devil don't step between the 
cup and the lip, as he used to do. 



Fash. Why, faith, he has played me many a 
damned trick to spoil my fortune ; and, egad, I am 
almost afraid he's at work about it again now; 
but if I should tell thee how, thou'dst wonder at 
me. 

Lory. Indeed, sir, I should not. 

Fash. How dost know ? 

Lory. Because, sir, I have wondered at you so 
often, I can wonder at you no more. 

Fash. No ! — What wouldst thou say, if a qualm 
of conscience should spoil my design ? 

Lory. I would eat my words, and wonder more 
than ever. 

Fash. Why faith, Lory, though I have played 
many a roguish trick, this is so full-grown a cheat, 
I find I must take pains to come up to't— I have 
scruples. 

Lory. They are strong symptoms of death. 
If you find them increase, sir, pray make your 
will. 

Fash. No, my conscience shan't starve me nei- 
ther ; but thus far I'll listen to it. Before I execute 
this project, I'll try my brother to the bottom. If 
he has yet so much humanity about him as to assist 
me — though with a moderate aid — I'll drop my 
project at his feet, and show him how I can do for 
him much more than what I'd ask he'd do for me. 
This one conclusive trial of him I resolve to 
make. — 

Succeed or fail, still victory is my lot ; 
If I subdue his heart, 'tis well — if not, 
I will subdue my conscience to my plot. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT II. 



SCENE I. — Loveless's Lodgings. 
Enter Loveless and Amanda. 



Love. How do you like these lodgings, my dear ? 
For my part, I am so pleased with them, I shall 
hardly remove whilst we stay here, if you are 
satisfied. 

Avian. I am satisfied with everything that 
pleases you, else I had not come to Scarborough 
at all. 

Love. Oh, a little of the noise and folly of this 
place will sweeten the pleasures of our retreat ; we 
shall find the charms of our retirement doubled 
when we return to it. 

Annan. That pleasing prospect will be my chief- 
est entertainment, whilst, much against my will, I 
engage in those empty pleasures which 'tis so much 
the fashion to be fond of. 

Love. I own most of them are, indeed, but 
empty ; yet there are delights of which a private 
life is destitute, which may divert an honest man, 
and be a harmless entertainment to a virtuous wo- 
man : good music is one ; and truly (with some 
small allowance) the plays, I think, maybe esteem- 
ed another. 

Aman. Plays, I must confess, have some small 
charms. What do you think of that you saw last 
night ? 

Love. To say truth, I did not mind it much — 
my attention was for some time taken off to admire 



the workmanship of nature, in the face of a young 
lady who sat some distance from me, she was so 
exquisitely handsome. 

Aman. So exquisitely handsome ! 

Love. Why do you repeat my words, my dear? 

Aman. Because you seemed to speak them with 
such pleasure, I thought I might oblige you with 
their echo. 

Love. Then, you are alarmed, Amanda ? 

Aman. It is my duty to be so when you are in 
danger. 

Love. You are too quick in apprehending for 
me. I viewed her with a world of admiration, but 
not one glance of love. 

Aman. Take heed of trusting to such nice dis- 
tinctions. But were your eyes the only things that 
were inquisitive ? Had I been in your place, my 
tongue, I fancy, had been curious too. I should 
have asked her where she lived — yet still without 
design — who was she, pray ? 

Love. Indeed I cannot tell. 

Aman. You will not tell. 

Love. Upon my honour then, I did not ask. 

Aman. Nor do you know what company was 
with her ? 

Love. I do not. But why are you so earnest ? 

Aman. I thought I had cause. 

Love. But you thought wrong, Amanda ; for 
turn the case, and let it be your story : should 
you come home and tell me you had seen a hand- 



SCENE I. 



A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH. 



63 



some man, should I grow jealous because you had 
eyes ? 

Aman. But should I tell you he was exquisitely 
so, and that I had gazed on him with admiration, 
should you not think 'twere possible I might go 
one step further, and inquire his name ? 

Love. [Aside.] She has reason on her side ; I 
have talked too much ; but I must turn off another 
way. — [Aloud.] "Will you then make no difference, 
Amanda, between the language of our sex and 
yours ? There is a modesty restrains your tongues, 
which makes you speak by halves when you com- 
mend ; but roving flattery gives a loose to ours, 
which makes us still speak double what we think. 

Enter Servant. 

Serv. Madam, there is a lady at the door in a 
chair desires to know whether your ladyship sees 
company : her name is Berinthia. 

Aman. Oh dear I 'tis a relation I have not seen 
these five years ; pray her to walk in. — [Exit 
Servant.] Here's another beauty for you ; she 
was, when I saw her last, reckoned extremely 
handsome. 

Love. Don't be jealous now ; for I shall gaze 
upon her too. 

Enter Berinthia. 
Ha ! by heavens, the very woman ! [Aside. 

Ber. [Salutes Amanda.] Dear Amanda, I did 
not expect to meet you in Scarborough. 

Aman. Sweet cousin, I'm overjoyed to see you. 
— Mr. Loveless, here's a relation and a friend of 
mine, I desire you'll be better acquainted with. 

Love. [Salutes Berinthia.] If my wife never 
desires a harder thing, madam, her request will be 
easily granted. 

Re-enter Servant. 

Serv. Sir, my lord Foppington presents his 
humble service to you, and desires to know how 
you do. He's at the next door ; and if it be not 
inconvenient to you, he'll come and wait upon 
you. 

Love. Give my compliments to his lordship, and 
I shall be glad to see him. — [Exit Servant.] If 
you are not acquainted with his lordship, madam, 
you will be entertained with his character. 

Aman. Now it moves my pity more than my 
mirth lo see a man, whom nature has made no fool, 
be so very industrious to pass for an ass. 

Love. No, there you are wrong, Amanda ; you 
should never bestow your pity upon those who take 
pains for your contempt : pity those whom nature 
abuses, never those who abuse nature. 

Enter Lord Foppington. 

Lord Fop. Dear Loveless, I am your most hum- 
ble servant. 

Love. My lord, I'm yours. 

Lord Fop. Madam, your ladyship's very obedient 
slave. 

Love. My lord, this lady is a relation of my 
wife's. 

Lord Fop. [Salutes Berinthia.] The beauti- 
fullest race of people upon earth, rat me ! Dear 
Loveless, I am overjoyed that you think of conti- 
nuing here : I am, stap my vitals ! — [ To Amanda.] 
For Gad's sake, madam, how has your ladyship 
been able to subsist thus long, under the fatigue of 
a country life ? 



Aman. My life has been very far from that, my 
lord ; it has been a very quiet one. 

Lord Fop. Why, that's the fatigue I speak of, 
madam; for 'tis impossible to be quiet, without 
thinking: now thinking is to me the greatest fatigue 
in the world. 

Aman. Does not your lordship love reading 
then? 

Lord Fop. Oh, passionately, madam ; but I 
never think of what I read. For example, madam, 
my life is a perpetual stream of pleasure, that glides 
through with such a variety of entertainments, I 
believe the wisest of our ancestors never had the 
least conception of any of 'em. I rise, madam, 
when in tawn, about twelve o'clock. I don't rise 
sooner, because it is the worst thing in the world 
for the complexion : nat that I pretend to be a 
beau ; but a man must endeavour to look decent, 
lest he makes so odious a figure in the side-bax, the 
ladies should be compelled to turn their eyes upon 
the play. So at twelve o'clock, I say, I rise. Naw, 
if I find it is a good day, I resalve to take the 
exercise of riding ; so drink my chocolate, and draw 
on my boots by two. On my return, I dress ; and 
after dinner, lounge perhaps to the opera* 

Ber. Your lordship, I suppose, is fond of music? 

Lord Fop. Oh, passionately, on Tuesdays and 
Saturdays ; for then there is always the best com- 
pany, and one is not expected to undergo the 
fatigue of listening. 

Aman. Does your lordship think that the case 
at the opera ? 

Lord Fop. Most certainly, madam. There is 
my lady Tattle, my lady Prate, my lady Titter, my 
lady Sneer, my lady Giggle, and my lady Grin — 
these have boxes in the front, and while any 
favourite air is singing, are the prettiest company 
in the waurld, stap my vitals ! — Mayn't we hope 
for the honour to see you added to our society, 
madam ? 

Aman. Alas ! my lord, I am the worst company 
in the world at a concert, I'm so apt to attend to 
the music. 

Lord Fop. Why, madam, that is very pardonable 
in the country or at church, but a monstrous inat- 
tention in a polite assembly. But I am afraid I 
tire the company ? 

Love. Not at all. Pray go on. 

Lord Fop. Why then, ladies, there only remains 
to add, that I generally conclude the evening at one 
or other of the clubs ; nat that I ever play deep ; 
indeed I have been for some time tied up from 
losing above five thousand paunds at a sitting. 

Love. But isn't your lordship sometimes obliged 
to attend the weighty affairs of the nation ? 

Lord Fop. Sir, as to weighty affairs, I leave 
them to weighty heads ; I never intend mine shall 
be a burden to my body. 

Ber. Nay, my lord, but you are a pillar of the 
state. 

Lord Fop. An ornamental pillar, madam ; for 
sooner than undergo any part of the fatigue, rat 
me, but the whole building should fall plump to 
the ground ! 

Aman. But, my lord, a fine gentleman spends a 
great deal of his time in his intrigues ; you have 
given us no account of them yet. 

Lord Fop. [Aside.] So ! she would inquire into 
my amours — that's jealousy, poor soul ! — I see 
she's in love with me.— [Aloud.] O Lord, madam 



64 



A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH. 



I had like to have forgot a secret I must needs tell 
your ladyship. — Ned, you must not be so jealous 
now as to listen. 

Love. Not I, my lord ; I am too fashionable a 
husband to pry into the secrets of my wife. 

Lord Fop. [Aside to Amanda, squeezing her 
hand.] I am in love with you to desperation, strike 
me speechless ! 

Aman. [Strikes him on the ear.] Then thus I 
return your passion. — An impudent fool ! 

Lord Fop. Gad's curse, madam, I am a peer of 
the realm ! 

Love. Hey ! what the devil, do you affront my 
wife, sir ? Nay then — [Draws. They fight. 

Aman. What has my folly done ? — Help ! mur- 
der ! help ! Part them, for Heaven's sake. 

Lord Fop. [Falls back and leans on his sword.] 
Ah ! quite through the body, stap my vitals ! 

Enter Servants. 

Love. [Runs to Lord Foppington,] I hope 1 
han't killed the fool, however. Bear him up — 
Call a surgeon there. 

Lord Fop. Ay, pray make haste. [Exit Servant. 

Love. This mischief you may thank yourself for. 

Lord Fop. I may so ; love's the devil indeed, 
Ned. 

Re-enter Servant, with Probe. 

Ser. Here's Mr. Probe, sir, was just going by 
the door. 

Lord Fop. He's the welcomest man alive. 

Probe. Stand by, stand by, stand by ; pray, 
gentlemen, stand by. Lord have mercy upon us, 
did you never see a man run through the body 
before ? — Pray stand by. 

Lord Fop. Ah, Mr. Probe, I'm a dead man. 

Probe. A dead man, and I by ! I should laugh 
to see that, egad. 

Love. Prithee don't stand prating, but look upon 
his wound. 

Probe. Why, what if I won't look upon his 
wound this hour, sir ? 

Love. Why then he'll bleed to death, sir. 

Probe. Why, then I'll fetch him to life again, 
sir. 

Love. 'Slife ! he's run through the body, I tell 
thee. 

Probe. I wish he was run through the heart, 
and I should get the more credit by his cure. Now 
I hope you are satisfied ? Come, now let me come 

at him — now let me come at him [ Viewing his 

wound.] Oons ! what a gash is here ! Why, sir, 
a man may drive a coach and six horses into your 
body. 

Lord Fop. Oh! 

Probe. Why, what the devil have you run the 
gentleman through with a scythe ? — [Aside.] A 
little scratch between the skin and the ribs, that's 
all. 

Love. Let me see his wound. 

Probe. Then you shall dress it, sir ; for if any 
body looks upon it I won't. 

Love. Why thou art the veriest coxcomb I ever 
saw ! 

Probe. Sir, I am not master of my trade for 
nothing. 

Lord Fop. Surgeon ! 

Probe. Sir. 

Lord Fop. Are there any hopes ? 



Probe. Hopes ! I can't tell. What are you 
willing to give for a cure ? 

Lord Fop. Five hundred paunds with pleasure. 

Probe. Why then perhaps there may be hopes ; 
but we must avoid a further delay. — Here, help the 
gentleman into a chair, and carry him to my house 
presently — that's the properest place — [Aside.} 
to bubble him out of his money. — [Aloud.] Come, 
a chair — a chair quickly — there, in with him. 

[Servants put Lord Foppington into a chair. 

Lord Fop. Dear Loveless, adieu ! if I. die, I for- 
give thee ; and if I live, I hope thou wilt do as 
much by me. I am sorry you and I should quarrel, 
but I hope here's an end on't ; for if you are 
satisfied, I am. 

Love. I shall hardly think it worth my prose- 
cuting any further, so you may be at rest, sir. 

Lord Fop. Thou art a generous fellow, strike 
me dumb ! — [Aside.] But thou hast an impertinent 
wife, stap my vitals 1 

Probe. So — carry him off, carry him off! — We 
shall have him prate himself into a fever by-and-by, 
— Carry him off ! [Exit with Lord Foppington. 

Enter Colonel Townly. 

Col. Town. So, so, I am glad to find you are 
alive. — I met a wounded peer carrying off. For 
Heaven's sake, what was the matter ? 

Love. Oh, a trifle ! he would have made love 
to my wife before my face, so she obliged him with 
a box o'the ear, and I run him through the body, 
that was all. 

Col. Town. Bagatelle on all sides. But pray, 
madam, how long has this noble lord been an 
humble servant of yours ? 

Aman. This is the first I have heard on't— 
so, I suppose, 'tis his quality more than his love 
has brought him into this adventure. He thinks 
his title an authentic passport to every woman's 
heart below the degree of a peeress. 

Col. Town. He's coxcomb enough to think any- 
thing; but I would not have you brought into 
trouble for him. I hope there's no danger of his 
life ? 

Love. None at all. He's fallen into the hands 
of a roguish surgeon, who, I perceive, designs to 
frighten a little money out of him : but I saw his 
wound — 'tis nothing : he may go to the ball to- 
night if he pleases. 

Col. Town. I am glad you have corrected him 
without further mischief, or you might have de- 
prived me of the pleasure of executing a plot 
against his lordship, which I have been contriving 
with an old acquaintance of yours. 

Love. Explain. 

Col. Town. His brother, Tom Fashion, is come 
down here, and we have it in contemplation to 
save him the trouble of his intended wedding ; but 
we want your assistance. Tom would have called, 
but he is preparing for his enterprise, so I promised 
to bring you to him — so, sir, if these ladies can 
spare you — 

Love. I'll go with you with all my heart. — 
[Aside.] Though I could wish, methinks, to stay 
and gaze a little longer on that creature. — Good 
gods ! how engaging she is ! — but what have I to 
do with beauty ? I have already had my portion, 
and must not covet more. 

Aman. Mr. Loveless, pray one word with you 
before you go. [Exit Colonel Townlv # 



SCENE J. 



A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH. 



65 



Love. What would my dear ? 

Aman. Only a woman's foolish question : how 
do you like my cousin here ? 

Love. Jealous already, Amanda ? 

Aman. Not at all : I ask you for another 
reason. 

Love. [Aside.] Whate'er her reason be, I must 
not tell her true. — [Aloud.] Why, I confess she's 
handsome : but you must not think I slight your 
kinswoman, if I own to you, of all the women who 
may claim that character, she is the last that 
would triumph in my heart. 

Aman. I'm satisfied. 

Love. Now tell me why you asked % 

Aman. At night I will — adieu ! 

Love. I'm yours. {Kisses her, and exit. 

Aman. I'm glad to find he does not like her, 
for I have a great mind to persuade her to come 
and live with me. {Aside. 

Ber. So ! I find my colonel continues in his 
airs : there must be something more at the bottom 
of this than the provocation he pretends from me. 

{Aside. 

Aman. For Heaven's sake, Berinthia, tell me 
what way I shall take to persuade you to come 
and live with me. 

Ber. Why, one way in the world there is, and 
but one. 

Aman. And pray what is that ? 

Ber. It is to assure me — I shall be very wel- 
come. 

Aman. If that be all, you shall e'en sleep here 
to-night. 

Ber. To-night ! 

Aman. Yes, to-night. 

Ber. Why, the people where I lodge will think 
me mad. 

Aman. Let 'em think what they please. 

Ber. Say you so, Amanda ? Why, then, they 
shall think what they please : for I'm a young 
widow, and I care not what anybody thinks. — 
Ah, Amanda, it's a delicious thing to be a young 
widow ! 

Aman. You'll hardly make me think so. 

Ber. Poh ! because you are in love with your 
husband. 

Aman. Pray, 'tis with a world of innocence I 
would inquire whether you think those we call 
women of reputation do really escape all other men 
as they do those shadows of beaux ? 

Ber. Oh no, Amanda ; there are a sort of men 
make dreadful work amongst 'em, men that may 
be called the beau's antipathy, for they agree in 
nothing but walking upon two legs. These have 
brains, the beau has none. These are in love with 
their mistress, the beau with himself. They take 
care of their reputation, the beau is industrious to 
destroy it. They are decent, he's a fop ; in short, 
they are men, he's an ass. 

Aman. If this be their character, I fancy we 
had here, e'en now, a pattern of 'em both. 



Ber. His lordship and colonel Townly? 

Aman. The same. 

Ber. As for the lord, he is eminently so ; and 
for the other, I can assure you there's not a man 
in town who has a better interest with the women, 
that are worth having an interest with. 

Aman. He answers the opinion I had ever of 
him. — [Takes her hand.] I must acquaint you 
with a secret — 'tis not that fool alone has talked 
to me of love ; Townly has been tampering too. 

Ber. [Aside.] So, so ! here the mystery comes 
out [—[Aloud.] Colonel Townly ! — impossible, 
my dear ! 

Aman. 'Tis true, indeed ; though he has done 
it in vain ; nor do I think that all the merit of 
mankind combined could shake the tender love I 
bear my husband ; yet I will own to you, Berin- 
thia, I did not start at his addresses, as when they 
came from one whom I contemned. 

Ber. [Aside.] Oh, this is better and better ! — 
[Aloud.] Well said, Innocence ! and you really 
think, my dear, that nothing could abate your con- 
stancy and attachment to your husband ? 

Aman. Nothing, I am convinced. 

Ber. What, if you found he loved another 
woman better ? 

Aman. Well ! 

Ber. Well ! — why, were I that thing they call a 
slighted wife, somebody should run the risk of 
being that thing they call — a husband. — Don't I 
talk madly % 

Aman. Madly indeed ! 

Ber. Yet I'm very innocent. 

Aman. That I dare swear you are. I know 
how to make allowances for your humour : but 
you resolve then never to marry again ? 

Ber. Oh no ! I resolve I will. 

Aman. How so ? 

Ber. That I never may. 

Aman. You banter me. 

Ber. Indeed I don't; but I consider I'm a 
woman, and form my resolutions accordingly. 

Aman. Well, my opinion is, form what resolu- ! 
tion you will, matrimony will be the end on't. 

Ber. I doubt it — but a — Heavens ! I have 
business at home, and am half an hour too late. 

Aman. As you are to return with me, I'll just 
give some orders, and walk with you. 

Ber. Well, make haste, and we'll finish this 
subject as we go. — [Exit Amanda.] Ah, poor 
Amanda ! you have led a country life. Well, this 
discovery is lucky ! Base Townly ! at once false 
to me and treacherous to his friend ! — And my inno- 
cent and demure cousin too ! I have it in my 
power to be revenged on her however. Her hus- 
band, if I have any skill in countenance, would be 
as happy in my smiles as Townly can hope to be 
in hers. I'll make the experiment, come what will 
on't. The woman who can forgive the being 
robbed of a favoured lover, must be either an 
idiot or a wanton. {Exit. 



GQ 



A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH. 



ACT III. 



SCENE I. — Lord Foppington's Lodgings. 
Enter Lord Foppington and La Varole. 

Lord Fop. Hey, fellow, let my vis-a-vis come to 
the door. 

La Var. Will your lordship venture so soon to 
expose yourself to the weather ? 

Lord Fop. Sir, I will venture as soon as I can 
to expose myself to the ladies. 

La Var. I wish your lordship would please to 
keep house a little longer ; I'm afraid your honour 
does not well consider your wound. 

Lord Fop. My wound ! — I would not be in 
eclipse another day, though I had as many wounds 
in my body as I have had in my heart. So mind, 
Varole, let these cards be left as directed ; for this 
evening I shall wait on my father-in-law, sir Tun- 
belly, and I mean to commence my devoirs to the 
lady, by giving an entertainment at her father's 
expense ; and hark thee, tell Mr. Loveless I 
request he and his company will honour me with 
their presence, or I shall think we are not friends. 

La Var. I will be sure, milor. [Exit. 

Enter Tom Fashton. 

Fash. Brother, your servant ; how do you find 
yourself to-day ? 

Lord Fop, So well that I have ardered my coach 
to the door — so there's no danger of death this 
baut, Tarn. 

Fash. I'm very glad of it. 

Lord Fop. [Aside. 1 That I believe' s a lie. — 
[Aloud.] Prithee, Tarn, tell me one thing, — did 
not your heart cut a caper up to your mauth, when 
you heard I was run through the bady ? 

Fash. Why do you think it should ? 

Lord Fop. Because I remember mine did so, 
when I heard my uncle was shot through the head. 

Fash. It then did very ill. 

Lord Fop. Prithee, why so ? 

Fash. Because he used you very well. 

Lord Fop. Well ! — Naw, strike me dumb ! he 
starved me ; he has let me want a thausand women 
for want of a thausand paund. 

Fash. Then he hindered you from making a great 
many ill bargains ; for I think no woman worth 
money that will take money. 

Lord Fop. If I was a younger brother I should 
think so too. 

Fash. Then you are seldom much in love ? 

Lord Fop. Never, stap my vitals ! 

Fash. Why then did you make all this bustle 
about Amanda ? 

Lord Fop. Because she's a woman of an insolent 
virtue, and I thought myself piqued, in honour, to 
debauch her. 

Fash. Very well. — [Aside.] Here's a rare fellow 
for you, to have the spending of ten thousand 
pounds a year ! But now for my business with him. 
— [Aloud.] Brother, though I know to talk of 
business (especially of money) is a theme not quite 
so entertaining to you as that of the ladies, my 
necessities are such, 1 hope you'll have patience to 
hear me. 



Lord Fop. The greatness of your necessities, 
Tam, is the worst argument in the warld for your 
being patiently heard. I do believe you are going 
to make a very good speech, but, strike me dumb ! 
it has the worst beginning of any speech I have 
heard this twelvemonth. 

Fash. I'm sorry you think so. 

Lord Fop. I do believe thou art : but come, let's 
know the affair quickly. 

Fash. Why then, my case in a word is this : 
the necessary expenses of my travels have so much 
exceeded the wretched income of my annuity, that 
I have been forced to mortgage it for five hundred 
pounds, which is spent. So, unless you are so 
kind as to assist me in redeeming it, I know no 
remedy but to take a purse. 

Lord Fop. Why faith, Tam, to give you my 
sense of the thing, I do think taking a purse the 
best remedy in the waurld ; for if you succeed, you 
are relieved that way, if you are taken, you are 
relieved t'other. 

Fash. I'm glad to see you are in so plea- 
sant a humour ; I hope I shall find the effects 
on't. 

Lord Fop. Why, do you then really think it a 
reasonable thing, that I should give you five hundred 
paunds ? 

Fash. I do not ask it as a due, brother ; I am 
willing to receive it as a favour. 

Lord Fop. Then thou art willing to receive it 
anyhow, strike me speechless ! But these are 
damned times to give money in ; taxes are so great, 
repairs so exorbitant, tenants such rogues, and 
bouquets so dear, that, the devil take me, I am 
reduced to that extremity in my cash, I have been 
forced to retrench in that one article of sweet 
pawder, till I have brought it dawn to five guineas 
a maunth — now judge, Tam, whether I can spare 
you five hundred paunds. 

Fash. If you can't, I must starve, that's all. — 
[Aside.] Damn him ! 

Lord Fop. All I can say is, you should have 
been a better husband. 

Fash. Ouns ! if you can't live upon ten thousand 
a year, how do you think I should do't upon two 
hundred ? 

Lord Fop. Don't be in a passion, Tam, for 
passion is the most unbecoming thing in the waurld 
— to the face. Look you, I don't love to say any- 
thing to you to make you melancholy, but upon 
this occasion I must take leave to put you in mind 
that a running horse does require more attendance 
than a coach-horse. Nature has made some differ- 
ence 'twixt you and me. 

Fash. Yes — she has made you older.— [Aside.] 
Plague take her ! 

Lord Fop. That is not all, Tam. 

Fash. Why, what is there else ? 

Lord Fop. [Looks first on himself and then on 
his brother.] Ask the ladies. 

Fash. Why, thou essence-bottle, thou musk- 
cat ! dost thou then think thou hast any advantage 
over me but what Fortune has given thee ? 

Lord Fop. I do, stap my vitals ! 



A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH. 



07 



Fash. Now, by all that's great and powerful, 
thou art the prince of coxcombs ! 

Lord Fop. Sir, I am proud at being at the head 
of so prevailing a party. 

Fash. Will nothing provoke thee ? — Draw, 
coward ■ 

Lord Fop. Look you, Tarn, you know I have 
always taken you for a mighty dull fellow, and here 
is one of the foolishest plats broke out that I have 
seen a lang time. Your poverty makes life so 
burdensome to you, you would provoke me to a 
quarrel, in hopes either to slip through mf lungs 
into my estate, or to get yourself run through the 
guts, to put an end to your pain. But I will dis- 
appoint you in both your designs ; far with the 
temper of a philasapher, and the discretion of a 
statesman — I shall leave the room with my sword 
in the scabbard. {.Exit. 

Fash. So ! farewell, brother ; and now, con- 
science, I defy thee. — Lory ! 

Enter Lory. 

Lory. Sir ! 

Fash. Here's rare news, Lory ; his lordship has 
given me a pill has purged off all my scruples. 

Lory. Then my heart's at ease again : for I have 
been in a lamentable fright, sir, ever since your 
conscience had the impudence to intrude into your 
company. 

Fash. Be at peace ; it will come there no more : 
my brother has given it a wring by the nose, and I 
have kicked it down stairs. So run away to the 
inn, get the chaise ready quickly, and bring it to 
dame Coupler's without a moment's delay. 

Lory. Then, sir, you are going straight about the 
fortune ? 

Fash. I am. — Away — fly, Lory ! 

Lory. The happiest day I ever saw. I'm upon 
the wing already. Now then I shall get my wages. 

{Exeunt. 



SCENE II A Garden behind Loveless's 

Lodgings. 

Enter Loveless and Servant. 

Love. Is my wife within ? 

Serv. No, sir, she has gone out this half hour. 

Love. Well, leave me. — {Exit Servant.] How 
strangely does my mind run on this widow ! — 
Never was my heart so suddenly seized on before. 
That my wife should pick out her, of all woman- 
kind, to be her playfellow ! — But what fate does, 
let fate answer for : I sought it not. So ! by 
Heavens ! here she comes. 

Enter Ber[nthia 3 

Ber. What makes you look so thoughtful, sir ? 
I hope you are not ill. 

Love. I was debating, madam, whether I was 
so or not, and that was it which made me look so 
thoughtful. 

Ber. Is it then so hard a matter to decide ? I 
thought all people were acquainted with their own 
bodies, though few people know their own minds. 

Love. What if the distemper I suspect be in the 
mind ? 

Ber. Why then I'll undertake to prescribe you 
a cure. 

Love. Alas ! you undertake you know not what. 



Ber. So far at least then you allow me to be a 
physician. 

Love. Nay, I'll allow you to be so yet further ; 
for I have reason to believe, should I put myself 
into your hands, you would increase my distemper. 

Ber. How ? 

Love. Oh, you might betray me to my wife. 

Ber. And so lose all my practice. 

Love. Will you then keep my secret ? 

Ber. I will. 

Love. Well — but swear it. 

Ber. I swear by woman. 

Love. Nay, that's swearing by my deity ; swear 
by your own, and I shall believe you. 

Ber. Well then, T swear by man ! 

Love. I'm satisfied. Now hear my symptoms, 
and give me your advice. The first were these ; 
when I saw you at the play, a random glance you 
threw at first alarmed me. I could not turn my 
eyes from whence the danger came — I gazed upon 
you till my heart began to pant — nay, even now on 
your approaching me, my illness is so increased that 
if you do not help me I shall, whilst you look on, 
consume to ashes. {Takes her hand. 

Ber. O Lord, let me go ! 'tis the plague, and 
we shall be infected. {Breaking from him. 

Love. Then we'll die together, my charming 
angel. 

Ber. O Gad ! the devil's in you ! Lord, let me 
go ! — here's somebody coming. 

Re-enter Servant 

Serv. Sir, my lady's come home, and desires to 
speak with you. 

Love. Tell her I'm coming — [Exit Servant.] 
But before I go, one glass of nectar to drink her 
health. {To Berjnthia. 

Ber. Stand off, or I shall hate you, by Heavens ! 

Love* [Kissing her.~\ In matters of love, a 
woman's oath is no more to be minded than a man's. 

{Exit 

Ber. Urn ! 

Enter Colonel Townly. 

Col. Town. [Aside.] So ! what's here — Berinthia 
and Loveless — and in such close conversation ! — 
I cannot now wonder at her indifference in excusing 
herself to me ! — O rare woman ! — Well then, let 
Loveless look to his wife, 'twill be but the retort 
courteous on both sides. — [Aloud."] Your servant, 
madam ; I need not ask you how you do, you have 
got so good a colour. 

Ber. No better than I used to have, I suppose. 

Col. Toivn. A little more blood in your cheeks. 

Ber. I have been walking ! 

Col. Town. Is that all ? Pray was it Mr. Love- 
less went from here just now ? 

Ber. O yes — he has been walking with me. 

Col. Town. He has ! 

Ber. Upon my word I think he is a very agree- 
able man ! and there is certainly something parti- 
cularly insinuating in his address ! 

Col. Town. [Aside.] So, so ! she hasn't even 
the modesty to dissemble ! — [Aloud.] Pray, ma- 
dam, may I, without impertinence, trouble you 
with a few serious questions ? 

Ber. As many as you please ; but pray let them 
be as little serious as possible. 

Col. Town. Is it not near two years since I have 
presumed to address you ? 
F 2 



63 



A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH. 



Ber. I don't know exactly — but it has been a 
tedious long time. 

Col. Town. Have I not, during that period, had 
every reason to believe that my assiduities were far 
from being unacceptable ? 

Ber. Why, to do you justice, you have been 
extremely troublesome — and I confess I have been 
more civil to you than you deserved. 

Col. Town. Did I not come to this place at your 
express desire, and for no purpose but the honour 
of meeting you ? — and after waiting a month in 
disappointment, have you condescended to explain, 
or in the slightest way apologise, for your conduct? 

Ber. O heavens ! apologise for my conduct ! — 
apologise to you ! O you barbarian ! But pray 
now, my good serious colonel, have you anything 
more to add ? 

Col. Town. Nothing, madam, but that after 
such behaviour I am less surprised at what I saw 
just now ; it is not very wonderful that the woman 
who can trifle with the delicate addresses of an 
honourable lover should be found coquetting with 
the husband of her friend. 

Ber. Very true : no more wonderful than it was 
for this honourable lover to divert himself in the 
absence of this coquette, with endeavouring to 
seduce his friend's wife 1 O colonel, colonel, 
don't talk of honour or your friend, for Heaven's 
sake ! 

Col. Town. [Aside.] 'Sdeath ! how came she 
to suspect this ! — [Aloud.] Really, madam, I don't 
understand you. 

Ber. Nay, nay, you saw I did not pretend to 
misunderstand you. — But here comes the lady : 
perhaps you would be glad to be left with her for 
an explanation. 

Col. Town. O madam, this recrimination is a 
poor resource ; and to convince you how much you 
are mistaken, I beg leave to decline the happiness 
you propose me. — Madam, your servant* 

Enter Amanda. Colonel Townly whispers Amanda, 
and exit. 

Ber. [Aside.] He carries it off well, however ; 
upon my word, very well ! How tenderly they 
part ! — [Aloud.] So, cousin; I hope you have not 
been chiding your admirer for being with me ? I 
assure you we have been talking of you. 

Annan. Fy, Berinthia ! — my admirer ! will you 
never learn to talk in earnest of anything ? 

Ber. Why this shall be in earnest, if you please ; 
for my part I only tell you matter of fact. 

Aman. I'm sure there's so much jest and earnest 
in what you say to me on this subject, I scarce 
know how to take it. 1 have just parted with Mr. 
Loveless ; perhaps it is fancy, but I think there is 
an alteration in his manner which alarms me. 

Ber. And so you are jealous ? is that all ? 

Aman. That all ! is jealousy, then, nothing ? 

Ber. It should be nothing, if I were in your 
case. 

Aman. Why, what would you do ? 

Ber. I'd cure myself. 

Aman. How ? 

Ber. Care as little for my husband as he did for 
me. Look you, Amanda, you may baild castles in 
the air, and fume, and fret, and grow thin, and 
lean, and pale, and ugly, if you please ; but I tell 
you, no man worth having is true to his wife, or 
ever was, or ever will be so. 



Aman. Do you then really think he's false to 
me ? for I did not suspect him. 

Ber. Think so ! I am sure of it. 

Aman. You are sure on't ? 

Ber. Positively — he fell in love at the play. 

Aman. Right — the very same ! But who could 
have told you this ? 

Ber. Um ! — Oh, Townly I I suppose your hus- 
band has made him his confidant. 

Aman. O base Loveless ! And what did Townly 
say on't ? 

Ber* f Aside.] So, so ! why should she ask that ? 
— [Aloud.] Say I why he abused Loveless extremely, 
and said all the tender things of you in the world. 

Aman. Did he ? — Oh ! my heart ! — I'm very 
ill — dear Berinthia, don't leave me a moment. 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE III.— -Outside of Sir Tunbelly 

Clumsy's House. 

Enter Tom Fashion and Lory. 

Fash. So, here's our inheritance, Lory, if we 
can but get into possession. But methinks the seat 
of our family looks like Noah's ark, as if the chief 
part on't were designed for the fowls of the air, and 
the beasts of the field. 

Lory. Pray, sir, don't let your head run upon 
the orders of building here : get but the heiress, 
let the devil take the house. 

Fash. Get but the house, let the devil take the 
heiress ! I say. — But come, we have no time to 
squander ; knock at the door. — [Lory knocks two 
or thrse times.] What the devil ! have they got no 
ears in this house ? — Knock harder. 

Lory. Egad, sir, this will prove some enchanted 
castle ; we shall have the giant come out, by-and- 
by, with his club, and beat our brains out. 

[Knocks again. 

Fash. Hush, they come. 

Serv. [ Within] Who is there ? 

Lory. Open the door and see : is that your 
country breeding ? 

Serv. Ay, but two words to that bargain. — 
Tummas, is the blunderbuss primed ? 

Fash. Ouns ! give 'em good words, Lory, — or 
we shall be shot here a fortune catching. 

Lory. Egad, sir, I think you're in the right on't. 
— Ho 1 Mr. What-d'ye-call-'um, will you please 
to let us in ? or are we to be left to grow like 
willows by your moat side ? 

Servant appears at the window with a blunderbuss. 

Serv. Well naw, what's ya're business ? 

Fash. Nothing, sir, but to wait upon sir Tun- 
belly, with your leave. 

Serv. To weat upon sir Tunbelly ! why you'll 
find that's just as sir Tunbelly pleases. 

Fash. But will you do me the favour, sir, to 
know whether sir Tunbelly pleases or not ? 

Serv Why, look you, d'ye see, with good words 
much may be done. — Ralph, go thy ways, and ask 
sir Tunbelly if he pleases to be waited upon — and, 
dost hear, call to nurse, that she may lock up miss 
Hoyden before the gates open. 

Fash. D'ye hear that, Lory ? 

Enter Sir Tunbelly Clumsy, with Servants, armed with 
guns, clubs, pitchforks, $c. 
Lory. Oh ! — [Runs behind his master.] O Lord ! 
O Lord! Lord ! we are both dead men ! 



SCENE I. 



A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH. 



CO 



Fash. Fool ! thy fear will ruin us. [Aside to Lory. 

Lory. My fear, sir? 'sdeath, sir, I fear nothing. 
— [Aside.] Would I were well up to the chin in a 
horsepond ! 

Sir Tun. Who is it here hath any business with 
me ? 

Fash. Sir, 'tis I, if your name be sir Tunbelly 
Clumsy. 

Sir Tun. Sir, my name is sir Tunbelly Clumsy, 
whether you have any business with me or not. — 
So you see I am not ashamed of my name, nor my 
face either. 

Fash. Sir, you have no cause that I know of. 

Sir Tun. Sir, if you have no cause either, I 
desire to know who you are ; for, till I know your 
name, I shan't ask you to come into my house : 
and when I do know your name, 'tis six to four I 
don't ask you then. 

Fash. Sir, I hope you'll find this letter an au- 
thentic passport. {Gives him a letter. 

Sir Tun. Cod's my life, from Mrs. Coupler ! — I 
ask your lordship's pardon ten thousand times. — 
[To a Servant] Here, run in a-doors quickly ; get 
a Scotch coal fire in the parlour, set all the Turkey 
work chairs in their places, get the brass candle- 
sticks out, and be sure stick the socket full of 
laurel — run ! — [Turns to Tom Fashion] My lord, 
I ask your lordship's pardon. — [To Servant] And, 
do you hear, run away to nurse ; bid her let miss 
Hoyden loose again. — [Exit Servant.] I hope 
your honour will excuse the disorder of my family. 
We are not used to receive men of your lordship's 
great quality every day. Pray where are your 
coaches and servants, my lord ? 

Fash. Sir, that I might give you and your daugh- 
ter a proof how impatient I am to be nearer akin to 
you, I left my equipage to follow me, and came 
away post with only one servant. 

Sir Tun. Your lordship does me too much 
honour — it was exposing your person to too much 
fatigue and danger, I protest it was ; but my 
daughter shall endeavour to make you what amends 
she can ; and, though I say it that should not say 
it, Hoyden has charms. 

Fash. Sir, I am not a stranger to them, though I 
am to her ; common fame has done her justice. 

Sir Tun. My lord, 1 am common fame's very 
grateful, humble servant. My lord, my girl's 
young — Hoyden is young, my lord : but this I 
must say for her, what she wants in art she has in 
breeding ; and what's wanting in her age, is made 
good in her constitution. — So pray, my lord, walk 
in ; pray, my lord, walk in. 

Fash. Sir, I wait upon you. [Exeunt. 



SCENE IV.— A Room in Sir Tunbelly 
Clumsy's House. 

Miss Hoyden discovered alone. 

Miss Hoyd. Sure, nobody was ever used as I 
am ! I know well enough what other girls do, for 
all they think to make a fool o'me. It's well I have 
a husband a-coming, or ecod I'd marry the baker, 
I would so. Nobody can knock at the gate, but 
presently I must be locked up ; and here's the 
young greyhound can run loose about the house all 
the day long, so she can. — 'Tis very well ! 

Nurse. [Without, opening the door.~\ Miss 
Hoyden ! miss, miss, miss ! Miss Hoyden ! 

Enter Nurse. 

Miss Hoyd. Well, what do you make such a 
noise for, ha ? What do you din a body's ears for ? 
Can't one be at quiet for you ? 

Nurse. What do 1 din your ears for ? Here's 
one come will din your ears for you. 

Miss Hoyd. What care I who's come ? I care 
not a fig who comes, or who goes, as long as I 
must be locked up like the ale-cellar. 

Nurse. That, miss, is for fear you should be 
be drank before you are ripe. 

Miss Hoyd. Oh, don't trouble your head 
about that ; I'm as ripe as you, though not so 
mellow. 

Nurse. Very well ! Now I have a good mind to 
lock you up again, and not let you see my lord to- 
night. 

Miss Hoyd. My lord ! why, is my husband 
come ? 

Nurse. Yes, marry, is he ; and a goodly person 
too. 

Miss Hoyd. [Hugs Nurse.] Oh, my dear 
nurse, forgive me this once, and I'll never misuse 
you again ; no, if I do, you shall give me three 
thumps on the back, and a great pinch by the 
cheek. 

Nurse. Ah, the poor thing ! see now it melts ; 
it's as full of good-nature as an egg's full of 
meat. 

Miss Hoyd. But, my dear nurse, don't lie now 
— is he come, by your troth ? 

Nurse. Yes, by my truly, is he. 

Miss Hoyd. O Lord ! I'll go and put on my 
laced tucker, though I'm locked up for a. month 
for't. [Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 



SCENE I. — A Room in Sir Tunbelly Clumsy's 
House. 

Enter Miss Hoyden and Nurse. 

Nurse. Well, miss, how do you like your hus- 
band that is to be ? 

Miss Hoyd. O Lord, nurse, I'm so overjoyed I 
can scarce contain myself 1 

Nurse. Oh, but you must have a care of being 



too fond ; for men, nowadays, hate a woman that 
loves 'em. 

Miss Hoyd. Love him ! why, do you think I 
love him, nurse ? Ecod, I would not care if he 
was hanged, so I were but once married to him. 
No, that which pleases me is to think what work 
I'll make when I get to London ; for when I am a 
wife and a lady both, ecod, I'll flaunt it with the 
best of 'em. Ay, and I shall have money enough 
to do so too, nurse. 



70 



A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH. 



ACT IV. 



Nurse. Ah, there's no knowing that, miss ; for 
though these lords have a power of wealth indeed, 
yet, as I have heard say, they give it all to their 
sluts and their trulls, who joggle it about in their 
coaches, with a murrain to 'em, whilst poor madam 
sits sighing and wishing, and has not a spare half- 
crown to buy her a Practice of Piety. 

Miss Hoyd. Oh, but for that, don't deceive 
yourself, nurse ; for this I must say of my lord, he's 
as free as an open house at Christmas ; for this 
very morning he told me I should have six hundred 
a year to buy pins. Now if he gives me six hun- 
dred a year to buy pins, what do you think he'll 
give me to buy petticoats ? 

Nurse. Ah, my dearest, he deceives thee foully, 
and he's no better than a rogue for his pains ! 
These Londoners have got a gibberish with 'em 
would confound a gipsy. That which they call 
pin-money, is to buy everything in the versal world, 
down to their very shoe-knots. Nay, I have heard 
some folks say that some ladies, if they'll have gal- 
lants as they call 'em, are forced to find them out 
of their pin-money too. — But look, look, if his 
honour be not coming to you ! — Now, if I were 
sure you would behave yourself handsomely, and 
not disgrace me that have brought you up, I'd leave 
you alone together. 

Miss Hoyd. That's my best nurse ; do as you'd 
be done by. Trust us together this once, and if I 
don't show my breeding, I wish I may never be 
married, but die an old maid. 

Nurse. Well, this once I'll venture you. But 
if you disparage me — 

Miss Hoyd. Never fear. [Exit Nurse. 

Enter Tom Fashion. 

Fash. Your servant, madam ; I'm glad to find 
you alone, for I have something of importance to 
speak to you about. 

Miss Hoyd. Sir (my lord I meant), you may 
speak to me about what you please, I shall give 
you a civil answer. 

Fash. You give so obliging a one, it encourages 
me to tell you in a few words what I think, both 
for your interest and mine. Your father, I suppose 
you know, has resolved to make me happy in being 
your husband ; and I hope I may obtain your con- 
sent to perform what he desires. 

Miss Hoyd. Sir, I never disobey my father in 
anything but eating green gooseberries. 

Fash. So good a daughter must needs be an 
admirable wife. I am therefore impatient till you 
are mine, and hope you will so far consider the 
violence of my love, that you won't have the 
cruelty to defer my happiness so long as your father 
designs it. 

Miss Hoyd. Pray, my lord, how long is that ? 

Fash. Madam, a thousand years — a whole week. 

Miss Hoyd. Why I thought it was to be to-mor- 
row morning, as soon as I was up. I'm sure nurse 
told me so. 

Fash. And it shall be to-morrow morning, if 
you'll consent. 

Miss Hoyd. If I'll consent ? why I thought I 
was to obey you as my husband ? 

Fash. That's when we are married. Till then, 
I'm to obey you. 

Miss Hoyd. Why then, if we are to take it by 
turns, it's the same thing. I'll obey you now, and 
when we are married, you shall obey me. 



Fash. With all my heart. But I doubt we must 
get nurse on our side, or we shall hardly prevail 
with the chaplain. 

Miss Hoyd. No more we shan't, indeed ; for he 
loves her better than he loves his pulpit, and would 
always be a-preaching to her by his good will. 

Fash. Why then, my dear, if you'll call her 
hither, we'll persuade her presently. 

Miss Hoyd. O Lud ! I'll tell you a way how to 
persuade her to anything. 

Fash. How's that ? 

Miss Hoyd. Why tell her she's a handsome, 
comely woman, and give her half-a-crown. 

Fash. Nay, if that will do, she shall have half a 
score of 'em. 

Miss Hoyd. O gemini ! for half that she'd marry 
you herself. — I'll run and call her. [Exit. 

Fash. So ! matters go on swimmingly. This is 
a rare girl, i'faith. I shall have a fine time on't 
with her at London. 

Enter Lory. 
So, Lory, what's the matter ? 

Lory. Here, sir — an intercepted packet from the 
enemy ; your brother's postilion brought it. I 
knew the livery, pretended to be a servant of sir 
Tunbelly's, and so got possession of the letter. 

Fash. [Looks at the letter.] Ouns ! he tells sir 
Tunbelly here that he will be with him this even- 
ing, with a large party to supper. — Egad, I must 
marry the girl directly. 

Lory. Oh, zounds, sir, directly to be sure. Here 
she comes. [Exit. 

Fash. And the old Jesabel with her. 
Re-enter Miss Hoyden and Nurse. 
How do you do, good Mrs. Nurse ? I desired 
your young lady would give me leave to see you, 
that I might thank you for your extraordinary care 
and kind conduct in her education : pray accept of 
this small acknowledgment for it at present, and 
depend upon my further kindness when I shall be 
that happy thing her husband. [Gives her money. 

Nurse. [Aside.] Gold, by the maakins ! — 
[Aloud.] Your honour's goodness is too great. 
Alas 1 all I can boast of is, I gave her pure good 
milk, and so your honour would have said, an you 
had seen how the poor thing thrived, and how it 
would look up in my face, and crow and laugh, it 
would. 

Miss Hoyd. [To Nurse, taking her angrily 
aside.] Pray, one word with you. Prithee, nurse, 
don't stand ripping up old stories, to make one 
ashamed before one's love. Do you think such a 
fine proper gentleman as he is cares for a fiddle- 
come tale of a child ? If you have a mind to make 
him have a good opinion of a woman, don't tell 
him what one did then, tell him what one can do 
now. — [To Tom Fashion.] I hope your honour 
will excuse my mis-manners to whisper before you; 
it was only to give some orders about the family. 

Fash. Oh, everything, madam, is to give way 
to business ; besides, good housewifery is a very 
commendable quality in a young lady. 

Miss Hoyd. Pray, sir, are young ladies good 
housewives at London-town ? do they darn their 
own linen ? 

Fash. Oh no, they study how to spend money, 
not to save. 

Miss Hoyd. Ecod, I don't know but that may 
be better sport, ha, nurse ? 



A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH. 



Fash. Well, you shall have your choice when 
you come there. 

Miss Hoyd. Shall I ? then, by my troth, I'll 
get there as fast as I can. — [To Nurse.] His ho- 
nour desires you'll be so kind as to let us be mar- 
ried to-morrow. 

Nurse. To-morrow, my dear madam ? 

Fash. Ay, faith, nurse, you may well be sur- 
prised at miss's wanting to put it off so long. To- 
morrow ! no, no ; 'tis now, this very hour, I would 
have the ceremony performed. 

Miss Hoyd. Ecod, with all my heart. 

Nurse. Oh, mercy ! worse and worse ! 

Fash. Yes, sweet nurse, now and privately ; for 
all things being signed and sealed, why should 
sir Tunbelly make us stay a week for a wedding- 
dinner ? 

Nurse. But if you should be married now, what 
will you do when sir Tunbelly calls for you to be 
married ? 

Miss Hoyd. Wby then we will be married 
again. 

Nurse. What twice, my child ? 

Miss Hoyd. Ecod, I don't care how often I'm 
married, not I. 

Nurse. Well, I'm such a tender-hearted fool, I 
find I can refuse you nothing. So you shall e'en 
follow your own inventions. 

Miss Hoyd. Shall I ? O Lord, I could leap 
over the moon ! 

Fash. Dear nurse, this goodness of yours shall 
be still more rewarded. But now you must employ 
your power with the chaplain, that he may do his 
friendly office too, and then we shall be all happy. 
Do you think you can prevail with him ? 

Nurse. Prevail with him ! or he shall never 
prevail with me, 1 can tell him that. 

Fash. I'm glad to hear it ; however, to strengthen 
your interest with him, you may let him know I 
have several fat livings in my gift, and that the 
first that falls shall be in your disposal. 

Nurse. Nay, then I'll make him marry more 
folks than one, I'll promise him ! 

Miss Hoyd. Faith, do, nurse, make him marry 
you too ; I'm sure he'll do't for a fat living. 

Fash. Well, nurse, while you go and settle 

matters with him, your lady and I will go and take 

a walk in the garden. — [Exit Nurse.] Come, 

madam, dare you venture yourself alone with me ? 

[Takes Miss Hoyden by the hand. 

Miss Hoyd. Oh dear, yes, sir ; I don't think 
you'll do anything to me I need be afraid on. 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE II. — Amanda's Dressing-room. 
Enter Amanda, followed by her Maid. 
Maid. If you please, madam, only to say whe- 
ther you'll have me buy them or not ? 

Aman. Yes — no — Go, teaser ; I care not what 
you do. Prithee leave me. [Exit Maid. 

Enter Berinthia. 
Ber. What, in the name of Jove, is the matter 
with you ? 

Aman. The matter, Berinthia! I'm almost 
mad ; I'm plagued to death. 

Ber. Who is it that plagues you ? 
Aman. Who do you think should plague a wife 
but her husband ? 



Ber. O, ho ! is it come to that ? — We shall have 
you wish yourself a widow, by-and-by. 

Aman. Would I were anything but what I am ! 
A base, ungrateful man, to use me thus ! 

Ber. What, has he given you fresh reason to 
suspect his wandering ? 

Aman. Every hour gives me reason. 

Ber. And yet, Amanda, you perhaps at this 
moment cause in another's breast the same tor- 
menting doubts and jealousies which you feel so 
sensibly yourself. 

Aman. Heaven knows I would not. 

Ber. Why, you can't tell but there may be some 
one as tenderly attached to Townly, whom you 
boast of as your conquest, as you can be to your 
husband. 

Aman. I'm sure I never encouraged his pre- 
tensions. 

Ber. Psha ! psha ! no sensible man ever 
perseveres to love without encouragement. Why 
have you not treated him as you have lord Fop- 
pington ? 

Aman. Because he presumed not so far. But 
let us drop the subject. Men, not women, are 
riddles. Mr. Loveless now follows some flirt for 
variety, whom I'm sure he does not like so well as 
he does me. 

Ber. That's more than you know, madam. 

Aman. Why, do you know the ugly thing ? 

Ber. I think I can guess at the person ; but 
she's no such ugly thing neither. 

Aman. Is she very handsome ? 

Ber. Truly I think so. 

Aman. Whate'er she be, I'm sure he does not 
like her well enough to bestow anything more 
than a little outward gallantry upon her. 

Ber. [Aside.] Outward gallantry ! I can't bear 
this. — [Aloud.] Come, come, don't you be too 
secure, Amanda: while you suffer Townly to 
imagine that you do not detest him for his designs 
on you, you have no right to complain that your 
husband is engaged elsewhere. But here comes 
the person we were speaking of. 

Enter Colonel Townly. 

Col. Town. Ladies, as I come uninvited, I 
beg, if I intrude, you will use the same freedom in 
turning me out again. 

Aman. I believe it is near the time Loveless 
said he would be at home. He talked of accepting 
of lordFoppington's invitation to sup at sir Tunbelly 
Clumsy's. 

Col. Town. His lordship has done me the 
honour to invite me also. If you'll let me escort 
you, I'll let you into a mystery as we go, in which 
you must play a part when we arrive. 

Aman. But we have two hours yet to spare ; the 
carriages are not ordered till eight, and it is not a 
five minutes' drive. So, cousin, let us keep the 
colonel to play at piquet with us, till Mr. Loveless 
comes home. 

Ber. As you please, madam ; but you know I 
have a letter to write. 

Col. Town. Madam, you know you may com- 
mand me, though I am a very wretched gamester. 

Aman. Oh, you play well enough to lose your 
money, and that's all the ladies require ; and so, 
without any more ceremony, let us go into the 
next room, and call for cards and candles. 

[Exeunt. 



72 



A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH. 



ACT IV. 



SCENE III. — Berinthia's Dressing-room. 
Enter Loveless. 

Love. So, thus far all's well : I have got into 
her dressing-room, and it being dusk, I think 
nobody has perceived me steal into the house. I 
heard Berinthia tell my wife she had some parti- 
cular letters to write this evening, before she went 
to sir Tunbelly's, and here are the implements of 
correspondence. — How shall I muster up assurance 
to show myself when she comes ? I think she has 
given me encouragement ; and to do my impudence 
justice, I have made the most of it. — I hear a door 
open, and some one coming. If it should be my 
wife, what the devil should I say ? I believe she 
mistrusts me, and, by my life, I don't deserve her 
tenderness ; however, I am determined to reform — 
though not yet. Ha ! Berinthia ! — So, I'll step in 
here, till I see what sort of humour she is in. 

[Goes into the closet. 

Enter Berinthia. 
Bar. Was ever so provoking a situation ! To 
think I should sit and hear him compliment Amanda 
to my face ! I have lost all patience with them 
both ! I would not for something have Loveless 
know what temper of mind they have piqued me 
into ; yet I can't bear to leave them together. No, 
I'll put my papers away, and return to disappoint 
them. — {Goes to the closet.] O Lord ! a ghost ! a 
ghost ! a ghost ! 

Re-enter Loveless. 

Love. Peace, my angel ! it's no ghost, but one 
worth a hundred spirits. 

Ber. How, sir, have you had the insolence to 
presume to — run in again, here's somebody coming. 

[Loveless goes into the closet. 

Enter Maid. 

Maid. O Lord, ma'am ! what's the matter ? 

Ber. O heavens ! I'm almost frightened out of 
my wits ! I thought verily I had seen a ghost, 
and 'twas nothing but a black hood pinned against 
the wall. You may go again ; I am the fearfullest 
fool ! [Exit Maid. 

Re-enter Loveless. 

Love. Is the coast clear ? 

Ber. The coast clear ! Upon my word, I won- 
der at your assurance ! 

Love. Why then you wonder before I have 
given you a proof of it. But where's my wife ? 

Ber. At cards. 

Love. With whom ? 

Ber. WithTownly. 

Love. Then we are safe enough. 

Ber. You are so ! Some husbands would be 
of another mind, were he at cards with their 
wives. 

Love. And they'd be in the right on't too ; but 
I dare trust mine. 



Ber. Indeed ! and she, I doubt not, has the 
same confidence in you. Yet do you think she'd 
be content to come and find you here ? 

Love. Egad, as you say, that's true ! — Then, for 
fear she should come, hadn't we better go into the 
next room, out of her way ? 

Ber. What, in the dark ? 

Love. Ay, or with a light, which you please. 

Ber. You are certainly very impudent. 

Love. Nay, then — let me conduct you, my 
angel ! 

Ber. Hold, hold ! you are mistaken in your 
angel, I assure you. 

Love. I hope not ; for by this hand I swear— 

Ber. Come, come, let go my hand, or I shall 
hate you ! — I'll cry out, as I live ! 

Love. Impossible ! you cannot be so cruel. 

Ber. Ha ! here's some one coming. Begone 
instantly ! 

Love. Will you promise to return, if I remain 
here ? 

Ber. Never trust myself in a room again with 
you while I live. 

Love. But I have something particular to com- 
municate to you. 

Ber. Well, well, before we go to sir Tunbelly's, 
I'll walk upon the lawn. If you are fond of a 
moonlight evening, you'll find me there. 

Love. I'faith, they're coming here now ! — I take 
you at your word. [Exit into the closet. 

Ber. 'Tis Amanda, as I live ! I hope she has not 
heard his voice ; though I mean she should have 
her share of jealousy in her turn. 

Enter Amanda. 

Arnan. Berinthia, why did you leave me ? 

Ber. I thought I only spoiled your party. 

Aman. Since you have been gone, Townly has 
attempted to renew his importunities. I must 
break with him — for I cannot venture to acquaint 
Mr. Loveless with his conduct. 

Ber. Oh no ! Mr. Loveless mustn't know of it 
by any means. 

Aman. Oh, not for the world! — I wish, Berin- 
thia, you would undertake to speak to Townly on 
the subject. 

Ber. Upon my word, it would be a very pleasant 
subject for me to talk upon ! But, come, let us go 
back ; and you may depend on't I'll not leave you 
together again, if I can help it. [Exeunt. 

, Re-enter Loveless. 

Love. So — so ! a pretty piece of business I have 
overheard ! Townly makes love to my wife, and 
I am not to know it for all the world. I must 
inquire into this — and, by Heaven, if I find that 
Amanda has, in the smallest degree— yet what have 
I been at here ! — Oh, 'sdeath ! that's no rule. 
That wife alone unsullied credit wins, 
Whose virtues can atone her husband's sins. 
Thus, while the man has other nymphs in view, 
It suits the woman to be doubly true. [Exit. 



SCENE 1. 



A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH. 



73 



ACT V. 



SCENE I. — The Garden behind Loveless J s 
Lodgings. 

Enter Loveless. 

Love. Now, does she mean to make a fool of me, 
or not ! I shan't wait much longer, for my wife 
will soon be inquiring for me to set out on our 
supping-party. Suspense is at all times the devil, 
but of all modes of suspense, the watching for a 
loitering mistress is the worst. — But let me accuse 
her no longer ; she approaches with one smile to 
o'erpay the anxieties of a year. 

Enter Berinthia. 

O Berintbia, what a world of kindness are you in 
my debt ! had you staid five minutes longer — 

Ber. You would have gone, I suppose ? 

Love. Egad, she's right enough. [Aside. 

Ber. And I assure you 'twas ten to one that I 
came at all. In short, I begin to think you are too 
dangerous a being to trifle with ; and as I shall 
probably only make a fool of you at last, I believe 
we had better let matters rest as they are. 

Love. You cannot mean it, sure ? 

Ber. What more would you have me give to a 
married man ? 

Love. How doubly cruel to remind me of my 
misfortunes ! 

Ber. A misfortune to be married to so charming 
a woman as Amanda ? 

Love. I grant all her merit, but — 'sdeath ! now 
see what you have done by talking of her — she's 
here, by all that's unlucky, and Townly with her. 
— I'll observe them. 

Ber. O Ged, we had better get out of the 
way ; for I should feel as awkward to meet her as 
you. 

Love. Ay, if I mistake not, I see Townly coming 
this way also. I must see a little into this matter. 

[Steps aside. 

Ber. Oh, if that's your intention, I am no 

woman if I suffer myself to be outdone in curiosity. 

[Goes on the other side. 

Enter Amanda. 

A man. Mr. Loveless come home, and walking 
on the lawn ! I wili not suffer him to walk so late, 
though perhaps it is to show his neglect of me. — 
Mr. Loveless, I must speak with you. — Ha ! 
Townly again ! How I am persecuted ! 

Enter Colonel Townly. 

Col. Town. Madam, you seem disturbed. 

Aman. Sir, I have reason. 

Col. Town. Whatever be the cause, I would to 
Heaven it were in my power to bear the pain, or to 
remove the malady. 

Aman. Your interference can only add to my 
distress. 

Col. Town. Ah, madam, if it be the sting of 
unrequited love you suffer from, seek for your 
remedy in revenge : weigh well the strength and 
beauty of your charms, and rouse up that spirit a 
woman ought to bear. Disdain the false embraces 



of a husband. See at your feet a real lover ; his 
zeal may give him title to your pity, although his 
merit cannot claim your love. 

Love. So, so, very fine, i'faith ! [Aside. 

Aman. Why do you presume to talk to me 
thus ? Is this your friendship to Mr. Loveless ? 
I perceive you will compel me at last to acquaint 
him with your treachery. 

Col. Town. He could not upbraid me if you 
were. — He deserves it from me ; for he has not 
been more false to you than faithless to me. 

Aman. To you ? 

Col. Town. Yes, madam ; the lady for whom he 
now deserts those charms which he was never 
worthy of, was mine by right ; and 1 imagined too, 
by inclination. Yes, madam, Berinthia, who now — 

Aman. Berinthia ! impossible ! 

Col. Town. 'Tis true, or may I never merit your 
attention. She is the deceitful sorceress who now 
holds your husband's heart in bondage. 

Aman. I will not believe it. 

Col.- Town. By the faith of a true lover, I speak 
from conviction. This very day I saw them toge- 
ther, and overheard — 

Aman. Peace, sir ! I will not even listen to such 
slander — this is a poor device to work on my 
resentment, to listen to your insidious addresses. 
No, sir, though Mr. Loveless may be capable of 
error, I am convinced I cannot be deceived so 
grossly in him, as to believe what you now report ; 
and for Berinthia, you should have fixed on some 
more probable person for my rival than she who is 
my relation and my friend : for while I am myself 
free from guilt, I will never believe that love can 
beget injury, or confidence create ingratitude. 

Col. Town. If I do not prove to you — 

Aman. You never shall have an opportunity. 
From the artful manner in which you first showed 
yourself to me, I might have been led, as far as 
virtue permitted, to have thought you less criminal 
than unhappy ; but this last unmanly artifice merits 
1 at once my resentment and contempt. [Exit. 

! Col. Town. Sure there's divinity about her ; 
and she has dispensed some portion of honour's 
light to me : yet can I bear to lose Berinthia with- 
out revenge or compensation ? Perhaps she is not 
so culpable as I thought her. I was mistaken when 
I began to think lightly of Amanda's virtue, and 
may be in my censure of my Berinthia. Surely I 
love her still, for I feel I should be happy to find 
myself in the Avrong. [Exit. 

Re-enter Loveless and Berinthia. 

Ber. Your servant, Mr. Loveless. 

Love. Your servant, madam. 

Ber. Pray what do you think of this ? 

Love. Truly, I don't know what to say. 

Ber. Don't you think we steal forth two con- 
temptible creatures ? 

Love. Why tolerably so, I must confess. 

Ber. And do you conceive it possible for 
you ever to give Amanda the least uneasiness 
again ? 

Love. No, I think we never should indeed. 



74 



A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH. 



Ber. We ! why, monster, you don't pretend tha 
I ever entertained a thought ? 

Love. Why then, sincerely and honestly, Berin- 
thia, there is something in my wife's conduct which 
strikes me so forcibly, that if it were not for shame, 
and the fear of hurting you in her opinion, I swear 
I would follow her, confess my error, and trust to 
her generosity for forgiveness. 

Ber. Nay, prithee, don't let your respect for me 
prevent you ; for as my object in trifling with you 
was nothing more than to pique Townly, and as I 
perceive he has been actuated by a similar motive, 
you may depend on't I shall make no mystery of 
the matter to him. 

Love. By no means inform him ; for though I 
may choose to pass by his conduct without resent- 
ment, how will he presume to look me in the face 
again ? 

Ber. How will you presume to look him in the 
face again ? 

Love. He, who has dared to attempt the honour 
of my wife ! 

Ber. You, who have dared to attempt the honour 
of his mistress ! Come, come, be ruled by me, 
who affect more levity than I have, and don't think 
of anger in this cause. A readiness to resent in- 
juries is a virtue only in those who are slow to 
injure. 

Love. Then I will be ruled by you ; and when 
you shall think proper to undeceive Townly, may 
your good qualities make as sincere a convert of 
him as Amanda's have of me. — When truth's ex- 
torted from us, then we own the robe of virtue is a 
sacred habit. 

Could women but our secret counsels scan — 

Could they but reach the deep reserve of man — 

To keep our love they'd rate their virtue high, 

They live together, and together die. {Exeunt. 



SCENE II. — A Room mSirTuNBELLY Clumsy' s 
House. 

Enter Miss Hoyden, Nurse, and Tom Fashion. 

Fash. This quick despatch of the chaplain's I 
take so kindly, it shall give him claim to my favour 
as long as I live, I assure you. 

Miss Hoyd. And to mine too, I promise you. 

Nurse. 1 most humbly thank your honours ; 
and may your children swarm about you like bees 
about a honeycomb ! 

Miss Hoyd. Ecod, with all my heart — the more 
the merrier, I say — ha, nurse ? 

Enter Lory. 

Lory. One word with you, for Heaven's sake. 
[Taking Tom Fashion hastily aside. 

Fash. What the devil's the matter ? 

Lory. Sir, your fortune's ruined if you are not 
married. Yonder's your brother arrived, with two 
coaches and six horses, twenty footmen, and a coat 
worth fourscore pounds — so judge what will be- 
come of your lady's heart. 

Fash. Is he in the house yet ? 

Lory. No, they are capitulating with him at the 
gate. Sir Tunbelly luckily takes him for an im- 
postor ; and I have told him that we had heard of 
this plot before. 

Fash. That's right. — [Turning to Miss Hoy- 
ben.] My dear, here's a troublesome business my 



man tells me of, but don't be frightened ; we shall 
be too hard for the rogue. Here's an impudent 
fellow at the gate (not knowing I was come hither 
incognito) has taken my name upon him, in hopes 
to run away with you. 

Miss Hoyd. Oh, the brazen-faced varlet ! it's 
well we are married, or maybe we might never have 
been so. 

Fash. [Aside.] Egad, like enough. — [Aloud.] 
Prithee, nurse, run to sir Tunbelly, and stop him 
from going to the gate before I speak with him. 

Nurse. An't please your honour, my lady and I 
had best lock ourselves up till the danger be over. 

Fash. Do so, if you please. 

Miss Hoyd. Not so fast ; I won't be locked up 
any more, now I'm married. 

Fash. Yes, pray, my dear, do, till we have 
seized this rascal. 

Miss Hoyd. Nay, if you'll pray me, I'll do any- 
thing. [Exit with Nurse. 

Fash. Hark you, sirrah, things are better than 
you imagine. The wedding's over. 

Lory. The devil it is, sir ! 

Fash. Not a word — all's safe — but sir Tunbelly 
don't know it, nor must not yet. So I am resolved 
to brazen the brunt of the business out, and have 
the pleasure of turning the impostor upon his lord- 
ship, which I believe may easily be done. 

Enter Sir Tunbelly Clumsy. 
Did you ever hear, sir, of so impudent an under- 
taking ? 

Sir Tun. Never, by the mass ; but we'll tickle 
him, I'll warrant you. 

Fash. They teU me, sir, he has a great many 
people with him, disguised like servants. 

Sir Tun. Ay, ay, rogues enow, but we have 
mastered them. We only fired a few shot over 
their heads, and the regiment scoured in an 
instant. — Here, Tummas, bring in your prisoner. 

Fash. If you please, sir Tunbelly, it will be best 
for me not to confront the fellow yet, till you have 
heard how far his impudence will carry him. 

Sir Tun. Egad, your lordship is an ingenious 
person. Your lordship then will please to step 
aside. 

Lory. [Aside.] 'Fore heaven, I applaud my 
master's modesty ! [Exit with Tom Fashion. 

Enter Servants, with Lord Foppington disarmed. 

Sir Tun. Come, bring him along, bring him 
along. 

Lord Fop. What the plague do you mean, gen- 
tlemen ? is it fair time, that you are all drunk 
before supper ? 

Sir Tun. Drunk, sirrah ! here's an impudent 
rogue for you now. Drunk or sober, bully, I'm a 
justice o'the peace, and know how to deal with 
strollers. 

L,ord Fop. Strollers ! 

Sir Tun. Ay, strollers. Come, give an account 
of yourself. What's your name ? where do you 
live ? do you pay scot and lot ? Come, are you a 
freeholder or a copyholder ? 

Lord Fop. And why dost thou ask me so many 
impertinent questions % P 

Sir Tun. Because I'll make you answer 'em, 
before I have done with you, you rascal you ! 

Lord Fop. Before Gad, all the answers I can 
make to 'em is, that you are a very extraordinary 
old fellow, stap my vitals ! 



A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH. 



Sir Tun. Nay, if thou art joking deputy lieute- 
nants, we know how to deal with you. — Here, draw 
a warrant for him immediately. 

Lord Fop. A warrant ! What the devil is't 
thou wouldst be at, old gentleman ? 

Sir Tun. I would be at you, sirrah, (if my 
hands were not tied as a magistrate,) and with 
these two double fists beat your teeth down your 
throat, you dog you! 

Lord Fop. And why wouldst thou spoil my face 
at that rate ? 

Sir Tun. For your design to rob me of my 
daughter, villain. 

Lord Fop. Rab thee of thy daughter ! Now do 
I begin to believe I am in bed and asleep, and that 
all this is but a dream. Prithee, old father, wilt 
thou give me leave to ask thee one question ? 

Sir Tun. I can't tell whether I will or not, till 
I know what it is. 

Lord Fop. Why, then, it is, whether thou didst 
not write to my lord Foppington, to come down 
and marry thy daughter ? 

Sir Tun. Yes, marry, did I, and my lord 
Foppington is come down, and shall marry my 
daughter before she's a day older. 

Lord Fop. Now give me thy hand, old dad ; I 
thought we should understand one another at last. 

Sir Tun. The fellow's mad ! — Here, bind him 
hand and foot. [.They bind him. 

Lord Fop. Nay, prithee, knight, leave fooling ; 
thy jest begins to grow dull. 

Sir Tun. Bind him, I say — he's mad : bread 
and water, a dark room, and a whip, may bring 
him to his senses again. 

Lord Fop. Prithee, sir Tunbelly, why should 
you take such an aversion to the freedom of my 
address as to suffer the rascals thus to skewer 
down my arms like a rabbit ? — [Aside.] Egad, if 
I don't awake, by all that I can see, this is like to 
prove one of the most impertinent dreams that 
ever I dreamt in my life. 

Re-enter Miss Hoyden and Nurse. 

Miss Hoyd. [Going up to Lord Foppington.] 
Is this he that would have run — Fough, how he 
stinks of sweets '.—Pray, father, let him be dragged 
through the horsepond. 

Lord Fop. This must be my wife, by her 
natural inclination to her husband. [Aside. 

Miss Hoyd. Pray, father, what do you intend 
to do with him — hang him ? 

Sir Tun. That at least, child. 

Nurse. Ay, and it's e'en too good for him too. 

Lord Fop. Madame la gouvernante, I presume : 
hitherto this appears to me to be one of the most 
extraordinary families that ever man of quality 
matched into. [Aside. 

Sir Tun. What's become of my lord, daughter ? 

Miss Hoyd. He's just coming, sir. 

Lord Fop. My lord, what does he mean by that, 
now ! [Aside. 

Re-enter Tom Fashion and Lory. 
Stap my vitals, Tarn, now the dream's out ! 

Fash. Is this the fellow, sir, that designed to 
trick me of your daughter ? 

Sir Tun. This is he, my lord ; how do you like 
him ? is not he a pretty fellow to get a fortune ? 

Fash. I find by his dress he thought your 
daughter might be taken with a beau. 



Miss Hoyd. Oh, gemini ! is this a beau ? let me 
see him again. Ha ! I find a beau is no such ugly 
thing, neither. 

Fash. [Aside] Egad, she'll be in love with him 
presently — I'll e'en have him sent away to jail. — 
[To Lord Foppington.] Sir, though your un- 
dertaking shows you a person of no extraordinary 
modesty, I suppose you han't confidence enough to 
expect much favour from me ? 

Lord Fop. Strike me dumb, Tarn, thou art a 
very impudent fellow. 

Nurse. Look, if the varlet has not the effrontery 
to call his lordship plain Thomas ! 

Lord Fop. My lord Foppington, shall I beg one 
word with your lordship ? 

Nurse. Ho, ho, it's my lord with him now! 
See how afflictions will humble folks. 

Miss Hoyd. Pray, my lord, don't let him whisper 
too close, lest he bite your ear off. 

Lord Fop. I am not altogether so hungry as 
your ladyship is pleased to imagine. — [Aside to 
Tom Fashion.] Look you, Tarn, I am sensible I 
have not been so kind to you as I ought, but I 
hope you'll forgive what's past, and accept of the 
five thousand pounds I offer — thou mayst live in 
extreme splendour with it, stap my vitals ! 

Fash. It's a much easier matter to prevent a 
disease than to cure it. A quarter of that sum 
would have secured your mistress, twice as much 
cannot redeem her. [Aside to Lord Fopwngton. 

Sir Tun. Well, what says he ? 

Fash. Only the rascal offered me a bribe to let 
him go. 

Sir Tun. Ay, he shall go, with a plague to him ! 
— Lead on, constable. 

Enter Servant. 

Serv. Sir, here is muster Loveless, and muster 
colonel Townly, and some ladies to wait on you. 

[To Tom Fashion, 

Lory. [Aside to Tom Fashion] So, sir, what 
will you do now ? 

Fash. [Aside to Lory.] Be quiet ; they are in 
the plot — [Aloud.] Only a few friends, sir Tun- 
belly, whom I wish to introduce to you. 

Lord Fop. Thou art the most impudent fellow, 
Tarn, that ever nature yet brought into the world. — 
Sir Tunbelly, strike me speechless, but these are 
my friends and acquaintance, and my guests, and 
they will soon inform thee whether I am the true 
lord Foppington or not. 

Enter Loveless, Colonel Townly, Amanda, and 
Berinthia. 

Fash. So, gentlemen, this is friendly ; I rejoice 
to see you. 

Col. Town. My lord, we are fortunate to be the 
witnesses of your lordship's happiness. 

Love. But your lordship will do us the honour 
to introduce us to sir Tunbelly Clumsy ? 

Aman. And us to your lady. 

Lord Fop. Ged take me, but they are all in a 
story ! [Aside. 

Sir Tun. Gentlemen, you do me much honour ; 
my lord Foppington's friends will ever be welcome 
to me and mine. 

Fash. My love, let me introduce you to these 
ladies. 

Miss Hoyd. By goles, they look so fine and so 
stiff, I am almost ashamed to come nigh 'em. 



76 



A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH. 



Aman. A most engaging lady, indeed ! 

Miss Hoyd. Thank ye, ma'am. 

Ber. And I doubt not will soon distinguish her- 
self in the beau-monde. 

Miss Hoyd. Where is that ? 

Fash. You'll soon learn, my dear. 

Love. But, lord Foppington — 

Lord Fop. Sir ! 

Love. Sir ! I was not addressing myself to you, 
sir ! — Pray who is this gentleman ? He seems 
rather in a singular predicament — 

Col. Town. For so well-dressed a person, a 
little oddly circumstanced, indeed. 

Sir Tun. Ha ! ha ! ha ! — So, these are your 
friends and your guests, ha, my adventurer ? 

Lord Fop. I am struck dumb with their impu- 
dence, and cannot positively say whether I shall 
again or not. 



Sir Tun. Why, sir, this modest gentleman 
wanted to pass himself upon me as lord Foppington, 
and carry off my daughter. 

Love. A likely plot to succeed, truly, ha ! ha ! 

Lord Fop. As Gad shall judge me, Loveless, I 
did not expect this from thee. Come, prithee 
confess the joke ; tell sir Tunbelly that I am the 
real lord Foppington, who yesterday made love to 
thy wife ; was honoured by her with a slap on the 
face, and afterwards pinked through the body by 
thee. 

Sir Tun. A likely story, truly, that a peer would 
behave thus ! 

Love. A pretty fellow, indeed, that would 
scandalise the character he wants to assume ; but 
what will you do with him, sir Tunbelly ? 

Sir Tun. Commit him, certainly, unless the 
bride and bridegroom choose to pardon him. 

Lord Fop. Bride and bridegroom ! For Gad's 
sake, sir Tunbelly, 'tis tarture to me to hear you 
call 'em so. 

Miss Hoyd, Why, you ugly thing, what would 
you have him call us — dog and cat ? 

Lord Fop. By no means, miss ; for that sounds 
ten times more like man and wife than t'other. 

Sir Tun. A precious rogue this to come a-woo- 
ing ! 

Re-enter Servant. 

Serv. There are some gentlefolks below to wait 
upon lord Foppington. {Exit. 

Col. Town. 'Sdeath, Tom, what will you do now? 
{Aside to Tom Fashion. 

Lord Fop. Now, sir Tunbelly, here are witnesses 
who I believe are not corrupted. 

Sir Tun. Peace, fellow ! — Would your lordship 
choose to have your guests shown here, or shall 
they wait till we come to 'em ? 

Fash. I believe, sir Tunbelly, we had better not 
have these visitors here yet. — [Aside.'] Egad, all 
must out. 

Love. Confess, confess ; we'll stand by you. 

{Aside to Tom Fashion. 

Lord Fop. Nay, sir Tunbelly, I insist on your 
calling evidence on both sides — and if I do not 
prove that fellow an impostor — 

Fash. Brother, I will save you the trouble, by 
now confessing that I am not what I have passed 
myself for — Sir Tunbelly, I am a gentleman, and 
I flatter myself a man of character ; but 'tis with 
great pride I assure you I am not lord Foppington. 

Sir Tun. Ouns ! — what's this ? — an impostor ? 



— a cheat ? — fire and faggots, sir, if you are not 
lord Foppington, who the devil are you ? 

Fash. Sir, the best of my condition is, I am 
your son-in-law ; and the worst of it is, I am 
brother to that noble peer. 

Lord Fop. Impudent to the last, Gad dem me ! 

Sir Tun. My son-in-law ! not yet, I hope. 

Fash. Pardon me, sir ; thanks to the goodness 
of your chaplain, and the kind offices of this old 
gentlewoman. 

Lory. 'Tis true, indeed, sir ; I gave your daugh- 
ter away, and Mrs. Nurse, here, was clerk. 

Sir Tun. Knock that rascal down !— But speak, 
Jesabel, how's this ? 

Nurse. Alas ! your honour, forgive me ; I have 
been overreached in this business as well as you. 
Your worship knows, if the wedding-dinner had 
been ready, you would have given her away with 
your own hands. 

Sir Tun. But how durst you do this without 
acquainting me ? 

Nurse. Alas ! if your worship had seen how the 
poor thing begged and prayed, and clung and 
twined about me like ivy round an old wall, you 
would say, I, who had nursed it, and reared it, must 
have had a heart like stone to refuse it. 

Sir Tun. Ouns ! I shall go mad ! Unloose my 
lord there, you scoundrels ! 

Lord Fop. Why, when these gentlemen are at 
leisure, I should be glad to congratulate you on 
your son-in-law, with a little more freedom of 
address. 

Miss Hoyd. Ecod, though, I don't see which is 
to be my husband after all. 

Love. Come, come, sir Tunbelly, a man of 
your understanding must perceive, that an affair 
of this kind is not to be mended by anger and 
reproaches. 

Col. Town. Take my word for it, sir Tunbelly, 
you are only tricked into a son-in-law you may be 
proud of: my friend Tom Fashion is as honest a 
fellow as ever breathed. 

Love. That he is, depend on't ; and will hunt or 
drink with you most affectionately : be generous, 
old boy, and forgive them — 

Sir Tun. Never ! The hussy ! — when I had set 
my heart on getting her a title. 

Isord Fop. Now, sir Tunbelly, that I am 
untrussed — give me leave to thank thee for the 
very extraordinary reception I have met with in 
thy damned, execrable mansion ; and at the same 
time to assure you, that of all the bumpkins and 
blockheads I have had the misfortune to meet with, 
thou art the most obstinate and egregious, strike 
me ugly ! 

Sir Tun. What's this ? I believe you are both 
rogues alike. 

Lord Fop. No, sir Tunbelly, thou wilt find to 
thy unspeakable mortification, that I am the real 
lord Foppington, who was to have disgraced my- 
self by an alliance with a clod ; and that thou hast 
matched thy girl to a beggarly younger brother of 
mine, whose title-deeds might be contained in thy 
tobacco-box. 

Sir Tun. Puppy ! puppy ! — I might prevent 
their being beggars, if I chose it ; for I could give 
'em as good a rent-roll as your lordship. 

Lord Fop. Ay, old fellow, but you will not do 
that — for that would be acting like a Christian, and 
thou art a barbarian, stap my vitals ! 



A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH. 



77 



Sir Tun. Udzookers ! now six such words more, 
and I'll forgive them directly. 

Love. 'Slife, sir Tunbelly, you should do it, and 
bless yourself. — Ladies, what say you ? 

Aman. Good sir Tunbelly, you must consent. 

Ber. Come, you have been young yourself, sir 
Tunbelly. 

Sir Tun. Well then, if I must, I must ; but turn 
— turn that sneering lord out, however, and let me 
oe revenged on somebody. But first look whether 
I am a barbarian or not ; there, children, I join 
your hands ; and when I'm in a better humour, 
I'll give you my blessing. 

Love. Nobly done, sir Tunbelly ! and we shall 
see you dance at a grandson's christening yet. 

Miss Hoyd. By goles, though, I don't under- 
stand this ! What, an't I to be a lady after all ? 
only plain Mrs. — What's my husband's name, nurse? 

Nurse. Squire Fashion. 

Miss Hoyd. Squire, is he ? — Well, that's better 
than nothing. 

Lord Fop. [Aside.] Now I will put on a philo- 
sophic air, and show these people, that it is not 
possible to put a man of my quality out of counte- 
nance. — [Aloud.~\ Dear Tarn, since things are 
fallen out, prithee give me leave to wish thee joy ; 
I do it de bon coeur, strike me dumb ! You have 
married into a family of great politeness and un- 
common elegance of manners, and your bride 
appears to be a lady beautiful in person, modest in 
her deportment, refined in her sentiments, and of ' 
nice morality, split my windpipe ! 

Miss Hoyd. By goles, husband, break his bones, 
if he calls me names ! 

Fash. Your lordship may keep up your spirits 
with your grimace, if you please ; I shall support 
mine by sir Tunbelly's favour, with this lady and 
three thousand pounds a year. 



Lord Fop. Well, adieu, Tam !— Ladies, I kiss 
your hands. — Sir Tunbelly, I shall now quit this 
thy den ; but while I retain the use of my arms, I 
shall ever remember thou art a demned horrid 
savage ; Ged demn me ! [Exit. 

Sir Tun. By the mass, 'tis well he's gone — for 
I should ha' been provoked, by-and-by, to ha' dun 
un a mischief. Well, if this is a lord, I think 
Hoyden has luck o' ber side, in troth. 

Col. Town. She has indeed, sir Tunbelly. — But 
I hear the fiddles ; his lordship, I know, had pro- 
vided 'em. 

Love. Oh, a dance and a bottle, sir Tunbelly, by 
all means ! 

Sir Tun. I had forgot the company below; well 
— what — we must be merry then, ha ? and dance 
and drink, ha ? Well, 'fore George, you shan't 
say I do these things by halves. Son-in-law there 
looks like a hearty rogue, so we'll have a night 
on't : and which of these ladies will be the old 
man's partner, ha ? — Ecod, I don't know how I 
came to be in so good a humour. 

Ber. Well, sir Tunbelly, my friend and I both 
will endeavour to keep you so : you have done a 
generous action, and are entitled to our attention. 
If you should be at a loss to divert your new guests, 
we will assist you to relate to them the plot of your 
daughter's marriage, and his lordship's deserved 
mortification ; a subject which perhaps may afford 
no bad evening's entertainment. 

Sir Tun. Ecod, with all my heart ; though I am 
a main bungler at a long story. 

Ber. Never fear ; we will assist you, if the tale 
is judged worth being repeated; but of this you 
may be assured, that while the intention is evi- 
dently to please, British auditors will ever be indul- 
gent to the errors of the performance. 

[Exeunt omnes. 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 

a <£omtf>g. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS, 

AS ORIGINALLY ACTED AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE IN 1777. 



SrR Peter Teazle . . . Mr. King. 

Sir Oliver Surface . . Mr. Yates. 

Sir Harry Bumper . . . Mr. Gawdry. 

Sir Benjamin Backbite . Mr. Dodd. 

Joseph Surface .... Mr. Palmer. 

Charles Surface . . . Mr. Smith. 

Careless Mr. Far r en. 

Snake Mr. Packer. 

Crastree Mr. Parsons. 

Rowley Mr. Aickin. 



Moses Mr. Baddeley. 

Trip Mr. Lamash. 



Lady Teazle Mrs. Abington. 

Lady Sneerwell . . . Miss Sherry. 

Mrs. Candour Miss Pope. 

Maria Miss P. Hopkins. 



Gentlemen, Maid, and Servants. 



SCENE,— London. 



A PORTRAIT; 

ADDRESSED TO MRS. CREWE, WITH THE COMEDY OF THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 
BY R. B. SHERIDAN, ESQ. 



Tell me, ye prim adepts in Scandal's school, 
Who rail by precept, and detract by rule, 
Lives there no character, so tried, so known, 
So deck'd with grace, and so unlike your own, 
That even you assist her fame to raise, 
Approve by envy, and by silence praise ! — 
Attend ! — a model shall attract your view — . 
Daughters of calumny, I summon you ! 
You shall decide if this a portrait prove, 
Or fond creation of the Muse and Love. — 
Attend, ye virgin critics, shrewd and sage, 
Ye matron censors of this childish age, 
Whose peering eye and wrinkled front declare 
A fix'd antipathy to young and fair ; 
By cunning, cautious ; or by nature, cold, 
In maiden madness, virulently bold ! — 
Attend ! ye skill'd to coin the precious tale, 
Creating proof, where inuendoes fail ! 
Whose practised memories, cruelly exact, 
Omit no circumstance, except the fact ! — 
Attend, all ye who boast, — or old or young, — 
The living libel of a slanderous tongue ! 
So shall my theme as far contrasted be, 
As saints by fiends, or hymns by calumny. 
Come, gentle Amoret (for 'neath that name, 
In worthier verse is sung thy beauty's fame) ; 
Come — for but thee who seeks the Muse ? 

while 
Celestial blushes check thy conscious smile, 



and 



With timid grace, and hesitating eye, 

The perfect model, which I boast, supply : — 

Vain Muse ! couldst thou the humblest sketcfc 

create 
Of her, or slightest charm couldst imitate — 
Could thy blest strain in kindred colours trace 
The faintest wonder of her form and face — 
Poets would study the immortal line, 
And Reynolds own his art subdued by thine ; 
That art, which well might added lustre give 
To Nature's best, and Heaven's superlative : 
On Granby's cheek might bid new glories rise, 
Or point a purer beam from Devon's eyes ! 
Hard is the task to shape that beauty's praise, 
Whose judgment scorns the homage flattery 

pays ! 
But praising Amoret we cannot err, 
No tongue o'ervalues Heaven, or flatters her ! 
Yet she by Fate's perverseness — she alone 
Would doubt our truth, nor deem such praise her 

own ! 
Adorning fashion, unadorn'd by dress, 
Simple from taste, and not from carelessness ; 
Discreet in gesture, in deportment mild, 
Not stiff with prudence, nor uncouthly wild : 
No state has Amoret ! no studied mien ; 
She frowns no goddess, and she moves no queen. 
The softer charm that in her manner lies 
Is framed to captivate, yet not surprise ; 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 



It justly suits the expression of her face, — 
'Tis less than dignity, and more than grace ! 
On her pure cheek the native hue is such, 
That form'd by Heaven to be admired so much, 
The hand divine, with a less partial care, 
Might well have fix'd a fainter crimson there, 
And bade the gentle inmate of her breast, — 
Inshrined Modesty ! — supply the rest. 
But who the peril of her lips shall paint ? 
Strip them of smiles — still, still all words are feint ! 
But moving Love himself appears to teach 
Their action, though denied to rule her speech ; 
And thou who seest her speak and dost not hear, 
Mourn not her distant accents 'scape thine ear ; 
Viewing those lips, thou still mayst make pretence 
To judge of what she says, and swear 'tis sense : 
Clothed with such grace, with such expression 

fraught, 
They move in meaning, and they pause in thought ! 
But dost thou farther watch, with charm'd surprise, 
The mild irresolution of her eyes, 
Curious to mark how frequent they repose, 
In brief eclipse and momentary close — 
Ah ! seest thou not an ambush'd Cupid there, 
Too timorous of his charge with jealous care 
Veils and unveils those beams of heavenly light, 
Too full, too fatal else, for mortal sight ? 
Nor yet, such pleasing vengeance fond to meet, 
In pardoning dimples hope a safe retreat. 
What though her peaceful breast should ne'er allow 
Subduing frowns to arm her alter'd brow, 
By Love, I swear, and by his gentle wiles, 
More fatal still the mercy of her smiles ! 
Thus lovely, thus adorn'd, possessing all 
Of bright or fair that can to woman fall, 



The height of vanity might well be thought 

Prerogative in her, and Nature's fault. 

Yet gentle Amoret, in mind supreme 

As well as charms, rejects the vainer theme ; 

And half mistrustful of her beauty's store, 

She barbs with wit those darts too keen before : — 

Read in all knowledge that her sex should reach, 

Though Greville, or the Muse, should deign to 

teach, 
Fond to improve, nor timorous to discern 
How far it is a woman's grace to learn ; 
In Millar's dialect she would not prove 
Apollo's priestess, but Apollo's love, 
Graced by those signs, which truth delights to own, 
The timid blush, and mild submitted tone : 
Whate'er she says, though sense appear throughout, 
Displays the tender hue of female doubt ; 
Deck'd with that charm, how lovely wit appears, 
How graceful science, when that robe she wears ! 
Such too her talents, and her bent of mind, 
As speak a sprightly heart by thought refined : 
A taste for mirth, by contemplation school'd, 
A turn for ridicule, by candour ruled, 
A scorn of folly, which she tries to hide ; 
An awe of talent, which she owns with pride ! 

Peace ! idle Muse, — no more thy strain prolong, 
But yield a theme, thy warmest praises wrong ; 
Just to her merit, though thou canst not raise 
Thy feeble verse, behold the acknowledged praise 
Has spread conviction through the envious train, 
And cast a fatal gloom o'er Scandal's reign ! 
And lo ! each pallid hag, with blister'd tongue, 
Mutters assent to all thy zeal has sung — 
Owns all the colours just — the outline true ; 
Thee my inspirer, and my model — Crewe ! 



PROLOGUE 

WRITTEN BY MR. GARRICK. 



A School for Scandal ! tell me, I beseech you, 

Needs there a school this modish art to teach 
you ? 

No need of lessons now, the knowing think ; 

We might as well be taught to eat and drink. 

Caused by a dearth of scandal, should the vapours 

Distress our fair ones — let them read the papers ; 

Their powerful mixtures such disorders hit ; 

Crave what you will — there's quantum sufficit. 

" Lord ! " cries my lady Wormwood (who loves 
tattle, 

And puts much salt and pepper in her prattle), 

Just risen at noon, all night at cards when threshing 

Strong tea and scandal — " Bless me, how re- 
freshing ! 

Give me the papers, Lisp — how bold and free ! 



Last night lord L. [Sips] was caught with lady D. 
For aching heads what charming sal volatile ! {Sips. 
If Mrs. B. will still continue flirting, 
We hope she^ll draw, or we'll undraw the 

curtain. 
Fine satire, poz — in public all abuse it, 
But, by ourselves, [Sips] our praise we can't re- 
fuse it. 



Now, Lisp, read you — there, at that dash and 

star :" 
" Yes, ma'am — A certain lord had best beware, 
Who lives not twenty miles from Grosvenor-square ; 
For should he lady W find willing, 
Wormwood is bitter"-*-" Oh ! that's me, the 

villain ! 
Throw it behind the fire, and never more 
Let that vile paper come within my door." 
Thus at our friends we laugh, who feel the dart ; 
To reach our feelings, we ourselves must smart. 
Is our youDg bard so young, to think that he 
Can stop the full spring-tide of calumny ? 
Knows he the world so little, and its trade ? 
Alas ! the devil's sooner raised than laid. 
So strong, so swift, the monster there's no gagging : 
Cut Scandal's head off, still the tongue is wagging. 
Proud of your smiles once lavishly bestow'd, 
Again our young Don Quixote takes the road ; 
To show his gratitude he draws his pen, 
And seeks this hydra, Scandal, in his den. 
For your applause all perils he would through — 
He'll fight — that's write — a cavalliero true, 
Till every drop of blood — that's ink— is spilt for 

you. 



80 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 



ACT I. 



SCENE I. — Lady Sneerwell's Dressing-room. 

Lady Sneerwell discovered at her toilet; Snake 
drinking chocolate. 

Lady Sneer. The paragraphs, you say, Mr. 
Snake, were all inserted ? 

Snake, They were, madam ; and as I copied 
them myself in a feigned hand, there can be no 
suspicion whence they came. 

Lady Sneer. Did you circulate the report of 
lady Brittle's intrigue with captain Boastall ? 

Snake. That's in as fine a train as your lady- 
ship could wish. In the common course of things, 
I think it must reach Mrs. Clackitt's ears within 
four-aud-twenty hours ; and then, you know, the 
business is as good as done. 

Lady Sneer. Why, truly, Mrs. Clackitt has a 
very pretty talent, and a great deal of industry. 

Snake. True, madam, and has been tolerably 
successful in her day. To my knowledge she has 
been the cause of six matches being broken off, 
and three sons disinherited ; of four forced elope- 
ments, and as many close confinements ; nine 
separate maintenances, and two divorces. Nay, I 
have more than once traced her causing a tete-a- 
tete in the Town and Country Magazine, when the 
parties, perhaps, had never seen each other's face 
before in the course of their lives. 

Lady Sneer. She certainly has talents, but her 
manner is gross. 

Snake. 'Tis very true. She generally designs 
well ; has a free tongue and a bold invention ; but 
her colouring is too dark, and her outlines often 
extravagant. She wants that delicacy of tint, and 
mellowness of sneer, which distinguishes your lady- 
ship's scandal. 

Lady Sneer. You are partial, Snake. 

Snake. Not in the least ; everybody allows that 
lady Sneerwell can do more with a word or a look 
than many can with the most laboured detail, even 
when they happen to have a little truth on their 
side to support it. 

Lady Sneer. Yes, my dear Snake ; and I am 
no hypocrite to deny the satisfaction I reap from 
the success of my efforts. Wounded myself, in the 
early part of my life, by the envenomed tongue of 
slander, I confess I have since known no pleasure 
equal to the reducing others to the level of my own 
injured reputation. 

Snake. Nothing can be more natural. But, 
lady Sneerwell, there is one affair in which you 
have lately employed me, wherein, I confess, I am 
at a loss to guess your motives. 

Lady Sneer. I conceive you mean with respect 
to my neighbour, sir Peter Teazle, and his family ? 

Snake. I do. Here are two young men, to 
whom sir Peter has acted as a kind of guardian 
since their father's death ; the eldest possessing 
the most amiable character, and universally well 
spoken of ; the youngest, the most dissipated and 
extravagant young fellow in the kingdom, without 
friends or character : the former an avowed ad- 
mirer of your ladyship's, and apparently your 
favourite : the latter attached to Maria, sir Peter's 



ward, and confessedly beloved by her. Now, on 
the face of these circumstances, it is utterly unac- 
countable to me, why you, the widow of a city 
knight, with a good jointure, should not close with 
the passion of a man of such character and expec- 
tations as Mr. Surface ; and more so why you 
should be so uncommonly earnest to destroy the 
mutual attachment subsisting between his brother 
Charles and Maria. 

Lady Sneer. Then at once to unravel this mys- 
tery, I must inform you, that love has no share 
whatever in the intercourse between Mr. Surface 
and me. 

Snake. No ! 

Lady Sneer. His real attachment is to Maria, 
or her fortune ; but finding in his brother a favoured 
rival, he has been obliged to mask his pretensions, 
and profit by my assistance. 

Snake. Yet still I am more puzzled why you 
should interest yourself in his success. 

Lady Sneer. How dull you are ! Cannot you 
surmise the weakness which I hitherto, through 
shame, have concealed even from you ? Must I 
confess, that Charles, that libertine, that extrava- 
gant, that bankrupt in fortune and reputation, that 
he it is for whom I am thus anxious and malicious, 
and to gain whom I would sacrifice everything ? 

Snake. Now, indeed, your conduct appears con- 
sistent : but how came you and Mr. Surface so 
confidential ? 

Lady Sneer. For our mutual interest. I have 
found him out a long time since. I know him to 
be artful, selfish, and malicious — in short, a senti- 
mental knave ; while with sir Peter, and indeed 
with all his acquaintance, he passes for a youthful 
miracle of prudence, good sense, and benevolence. 

Snake. Yes ; yet sir Peter vows he has not his 
equal in England ; and above all, he praises him as 
a man of sentiment. 

Lady Sneer. True ; and with the assistance of 
his sentiment and hypocrisy, he has brought sir 
Peter entirely into his interest with regard to Maria ; 
while poor Charles has no friend in the house, 
though, I fear, he has a powerful one in Maria's 
heart, against whom we must direct our schemes. 



Enter Servant. 
Ser. Mr. Surface. 
Lady Sneer. Show him up. 

Enter Joseph Surface. 



[Exit Servant. 



Jos. Surf. My dear lady Sneerwell, how do you 
do to-day ?— Mr. Snake, your most obedient. 

Lady Sneer. Snake has just been rallying me on 
our mutual attachment ; but I have informed him 
of our real views. You know how useful he has 
been to us, and, believe me, the confidence is not 
ill placed. 

Jos. Surf. Madam, it is impossible for me to 
suspect a man of Mr. Snake's sensibility and dis- 
cernment. 

Lady Sneer. Well, well, no compliments now ; 
but tell me when you saw your mistress, Maria — 
or, what is more material to me, your brother. 



SCENE 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 



81 



Jos. Surf. I have not seen either since I left 
you ; but I can inform you that they never meet. 
Some of your stories have taken a good effect on 
Maria. 

Lady Sneer. Ah, my dear Snake ! the merit of 
this belongs to you. — But do your brother's dis- 
tresses increase ? 

Jos. Surf. Every hour. I am told he has had 
another execution in the house yesterday. In 
short, his dissipation and extravagance exceed 
anything I have ever heard of. 

Lady Sneer. Poor Charles ! 

Jos. Surf. True, madam ; notwithstanding his 
vices, one can't help feeling for him. Poor Charles ! 
I'm sure I wish it were in my power to be of any 
essential service to him; for the man who does not 
share in the distresses of a brother, even though 
merited by his own misconduct, deserves — 

Lady Sneer. O Lud ! you are going to be moral, 
and forget that you are among friends. 

Jos. Surf. Egad, that's true ! I'll keep that 
sentiment till I see sir Peter. — However, it cer- 
tainly is a charity to rescue Maria from such a 
libertine, who, if he is to be reclaimed, can be so 
only by a person of your ladyship's superior 
accomplishments and understanding. 

Snake. I believe, lady Sneerwell, here's com- 
pany coming : I'll go and copy the letter I men- 
tioned to you. — Mr. Surface, your most obedient. 

Jos. Surf. Sir, your very devoted. — [Exit 
Snake.] Lady Sneerwell, I am very sorry you 
have put any farther confidence in that fellow. 

Lady Sneer. Why so ? 

Jos. Surf. I have lately detected him in frequent 
conference with old Rowley, who was formerly my 
father's steward, and has never, you know, been a 
friend of mine. 

Lady Sneer. And do you think he would betray 
us ? 

Jos. Surf. Nothing more likely : — take my word 
for't, lady Sneerwell, that fellow hasn't virtue 
enough to be faithful even to his own villany. — 
Ah ! Maria ! 

Enter Maria. 

Lady Sneer. Maria, my dear, how do you do ? 
What's the matter ? 

Mar. Oh ! there is that disagreeable lover of 
mine, sir Benjamin Backbite, has just called at my 
guardian's, with his odious uncle, Crabtree; so I 
slipped out, and ran hither to avoid them. 

Lady Sneer. Is that all ? 

Jos. Surf If my brother Charles had been of 
the party, madam, perhaps you would not have 
been so much alarmed. 

Lady Sneer. Nay, now you are severe ; for I 
dare swear the truth of the matter is, Maria heard 
you were here. — But, my dear, what has sir Ben- 
jamin done, that you would avoid him so ? 

Mar. Oh, he has done nothing — but 'tis for 
what he has said : his conversation is a perpetual 
libel on all his acquaintance. 

Jos. Surf. Ay, and the worst of it is, there is 
no advantage in not knowing him ; for he'll abuse 
a stranger just as soon as his best friend ; and his 
uncle's as bad. 

Lady Sneer. Nay, but we should make allow- 
ance ; sir Benjamin is a wit and a poet. 

Mar. For my part, I confess, madam, wit loses 
its respect with me, when I see it in company with 
malice. — What do you think, Mr. Surface ? 



Jos. Surf. Certainly, madam ; to smile at the 
jest which plants a thorn in another's breast is to 
become a principal in the mischief. 

Lady Sneer. Psha ! there's no possibility of being 
witty without a little ill-nature : the malice of a 
good thing is the barb that makes it stick. — What's 
your opinion, Mr. Surface ? 

Jos. Surf To be sure, madam ; that conversation, 
where the spirit of raillery is suppressed, will ever 
appear tedious and insipid. 

Mar. Well, I'll not debate how far scandal may 
be allowable ; but in a man, I am sure, it is always 
contemptible. We have pride, envy, rivalship, and 
a thousand motives to depreciate each other ; but 
the male slanderer must have the cowardice of a 
woman before he can traduce one. 

Re-enter Servant. 

Ser. Madam, Mrs. Candour is below, and if 
your ladyship's at leisure, will leave her carriage. 

Lady Sneer. Beg her to walk in. — [Exit Ser- 
vant.] Now, Maria, here is a character to your 
taste ; for though Mrs. Candour is a little talkative, 
everybody allows her to be the best natured and 
best sort of woman. 

Mar. Yes, with a very gross affectation of good- 
nature and benevolence, she does more mischief 
than the direct malice of old Crabtree. 

Jos. Surf. I'faith that's true, lady Sneerwell : 
whenever I hear the current running against the 
characters of my friends, I never think them in 
such danger as when Candour undertakes their 
defence. 

Lady Sneer. Hush ! — here she is ! 

Enter Mrs. Candour. 

Mrs. Can. My dear lady Sneerwell, how have 
you been this century ? — Mr. Surface, what news 
do you hear ? — though indeed it is no matter, for I 
think one hears nothing else but scandal. 

Jos. Surf. Just so, indeed, ma'am. 

Mrs. Can. Oh, Maria ! child, — what, is the 
whole affair off between you and Charles ? — His 
extravagance, I presume — the town talks of nothing 
else. 

Mar. I am very sorry, ma'am, the town has so 
little to do. 

Mrs. Can. True, true, child : but there's no 
stopping people's tongues. I own I was hurt to 
hear it, as I indeed was to learn, from the same 
quarter, that your guardian, sir Peter, and lady 
Teazle have not agreed lately as well as could be 
wished. 

Mar. 'Tis strangely impertinent for people to 
busy themselves so. 

Mrs. Can. Very true, child : hut what's to be 
done ? People will talk — there's no preventing it. 
Why, it was but yesterday I was told that Miss 
Gadabout had eloped with sir Filigree Flirt. — But, 
Lord ! there's no minding what one hears ; though, 
to be sure, I had this from very good authority. 

Mar. Such reports are highly scandalous. 

Mrs. Can. So they are, child — shameful, shame- 
ful ! But the world is so censorious, no character 
escapes. — Lord, now who would have suspected 
your friend, Miss Prim, of an indiscretion ? Yet 
such is the ill-nature of people, that they say her 
uncle stopped her last week, just as she was step- 
ping into the York diligence with her dancing- 
master. 

G 



82 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 



Mar. I'll answer for't there are no grounds for 
that report. 

Mrs. Can. Ah, no foundation in the world, I 
dare swear ; no more, probably, than for the story 
circulated last month, of Mrs. Festino's affair 
with Colonel Cassino ; — though, to be sure, that 
matter was never rightly cleared up. 

Jos. Surf. The licence of invention some people 
take is monstrous indeed. 

Mar. 'Tis so,— but, in my opinion, those who 
report such things are equally culpable. 

Mrs. Can. To be sure they are ; tale-bearers are 
as bad as the tale-makers — 'tis an old observation, 
and a very true one : but what's to be done, as I 
said before ? how will you prevent people from 
talking ? To-day, Mrs. Clackitt assured me, Mr. 
and Mrs. Honeymoon were at last become mere 
man and wife, like the rest of their acquaintance. 
She likewise hinted that a certain widow, in the 
next street, had got rid of her dropsy and recovered 
her shape in a most surprising manner. And at 
the same time, Miss Tattle, who was by, affirmed, 
that lord Buffalo had discovered his lady at a house 
of no extraordinary fame ; and that sir H. Bouquet 
and Tom Saunter were to measure swords on a 
similar provocation. But, Lord, do you think I 
would report these things ! — No, no ! tale-bearers, 
as I said before, are just as bad as the tale-makers. 

Jos. Surf. Ah ! Mrs. Candour, if everybody had 
your forbearance and good-nature ! 

Mrs. Can. I confess, Mr. Surface, I cannot 
bear to hear people attacked behind their backs ; 
and when ugly circumstances come out against our 
acquaintance, I own I always love to think the 
best. — By-the-bye, I hope 'tis not true that your 
brother is absolutely ruined ? 

Jos. Surf. I am afraid his circumstances are 
very bad indeed, ma'am. 

Mrs. Can. Ah ! I heard so — but you must tell 
him to keep up his spirits ; everybody almost is in 
the same way — lord Spindle, sir Thomas Splint, 
captain Quinze, and Mr. Nickit — all up, I hear, 
within this week ; so if Charles is undone, he'll 
find half his acquaintance ruined too, and that, you 
know, is a consolation. 

Jos. Surf. Doubtless, ma'am — a very great one. 
Re-enter Servant. 

Ser. Mr. Crabtree and sir Benjamin Backbite. 

[Exit. 

Lady Sneer. So, Maria, you see your lover pur- 
sues you ; positively you shan't escape. 

Enter Crabtrek and Sir Benjamin Backbite. 

Crab. Lady Sneerwell, I kiss your hand. — Mrs. 
Candour, I don't believe you are acquainted with 
my nephew, sir Benjamin Backbite ? Egad, 
ma'am, he has a pretty wit, and is a pretty poet 
too Isn't he, lady Sneerwell ? 

Sir Ben. O fy, uncle ! 

Crab. Nay, egad it's true ; I back him at a rebus 
or a charade against the best rhymer in the king- 
dom. — Has your ladyship heard the epigram he 
wrote last week on lady Frizzle's feather catching 
fire ? — Do, Benjamin, repeat it, or the charade you 
made last night extempore at Mrs. Drowzie's con- 
versazione. Come now ; — your first is the name 
of a fish, your second a great naval commander, 
and — 

Sir Ben, Uncle, now — prithee — 

Crab. I 'faith, ma'am, 'twould surprise you to 



hear how ready he is at all these fine sort of 
things. 

Lady Sneer. I wonder, sir Benjamin, you never 
publish anything. 

Sir Ben. To say truth, ma'am, 'tis very vulgar 
to print ; and as my little productions are mostly 
satires and lampoons on particular people, I find 
they circulate more by giving copies in confidence 
to the friends of the parties. — However, I have 
some love elegies, which, when favoured with this 
lady's smiles, I mean to give the public. 

{Pointing to Maria. 

Crab. [To Maria.] 'Fore heaven, ma'am, 
they'll immortalise you ! — you will be handed down 
to posterity, like Petrarch's Laura, or Waller's 
Sacharissa. 

Sir Ben. [To Maria.] Yes, madam, I think 
you will like them, when you shall see them on a 
beautiful quarto page, where a neat rivulet of text 
shall meander through a meadow of margin. — 'Fore 
Gad they will be the most elegant things of their 
kind! 

Crab. But, ladies, that's true — have you heard 
the news ? 

Mrs. Can. What, sir, do you mean the report 
of— 

Crab. No, ma'am, that's not it. — Miss Nicely is 
going to be married to her own footman. 

Mrs. Can. Impossible. 

Crab. Ask sir Benjamin. 

Sir Ben. 'Tis very true, ma'am ; everything is 
fixed, and the wedding liveries bespoke. 

Crab. Yes — and they do say there were press- 
ing reasons for it. 

Lady Sneer. Why, I have heard something of 
this before. 

Mrs. Can. It can't be — and I wonder any one 
should believe such a story, of so prudent a lady 
as Miss Nicely. 

Sir Ben. O Lud ! ma'am, that's the very reason 
'twas believed at once. She has always been so 
cautious and so reserved, that everybody was sure 
there was some reason for it at bottom. 

Mrs. Can. Why, to be sure, a tale of scandal is 
as fatal to the credit of a prudent lady of her stamp, 
as a fever is generally to those of the strongest con- 
stitutions. But there is a sort of puny sickly 
reputation, that is always ailing, yet will outlive the 
robuster characters of a^hundred prudes. 

Sir Ben. True, madam, — there are valetudina- 
rians in reputation as well as constitution ; who, 
being conscious of their weak part, avoid the least 
breath of air, and supply their want of stamina by 
care and circumspection. 

Mrs. Can. Well, but this may be all a mistake. 
You know, sir Benjamin, very trifling circumstances 
often give rise to the most injurious tales. 

Crab. That they do, I'll be sworn, ma'am. — Did 
you ever hear how Miss Piper came to lose her 
lover and her character last summer at Tunbridge ? 
— Sir Benjamin, you remember it ? 

Sir Ben. Oh, to be sure ! — the most whimsical 
circumstance. 

Lady Sneer. How was it, pray ? 

Crab. Why, one evening, at Mrs. Ponto's as- 
sembly, the conversation happened to turn on the 
breeding Nova Scotia sheep in this country. Says 
a young lady in company, I have known instances 
of it ; for Miss Letitia Piper, a first cousin of mine, 
had a Nova Scotia sheep that produced her twins. 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 



83 



— What ! cries the lady Dowager Dundizzy (who 
you know is as deaf as a post), has Miss Piper had 
twins ? — This mistake, as you may imagine, threw 
the whole company into a fit of laughter. How- 
ever, 'twas the next morning everywhere reported, 
and in a few days believed by the whole town, that 
Miss Letitia Piper had actually been brought to bed 
of a fine boy and a girl : and in less than a week 
there were some people who could name the father 
and the farm-house where the babies were put to 
nurse. 

Lady Sneer. Strange, indeed ! 

Crab. Matter of fact, I assure you.-p-O Lud ! 
Mr. Surface, pray is it true that your uncle, sir 
Oliver, is coming home ? 

Jos. Surf. Not that I know of, indeed, sir. 

Crab. He has been in the East Indies a long 
time. You can scarcely remember him, I believe ? 
Sad comfort whenever he returns, to hear how your 
brother has gone on ! 

Jos. Surf. Charles has been imprudent, sir, to 
be sure ; but I hope no busy people have already 
prejudiced sir Oliver against him. He may re- 
form. 

Sir Ben. To be sure he may : for my part, I 
never believed him to be so utterly void of principle 
as people say; and though he has lost all his friends, 
I am told nobody is better spoken of by the Jews. 

Crab. That's true, egad, nephew. If the Old 
Jewry was a ward, I believe Charles would be an 
alderman : no man more popular there, 'fore Gad ! 
I hear he pays as many annuities as the Irish ton- 
tine ; and that whenever he is sick, they have 
prayers for the recovery of his health in all the 
synagogues. 

Sir Ben. Yet no man lives in greater splendour. 
They tell me, when he entertains his friends he 
will sit down to dinner with a dozen of his own 
securities ; have a score of tradesmen waiting in 
the antechamber, and an ofiicer behind every guest's 
chair. 

Jos. Surf. This may be entertainment to you, 
gentlemen, but you pay very little regard to the 
feelings of a brother. 

Mar. [Aside.] Their malice is intolerable ! — 
[Aloud.] Lady Sneerwell, I must wish you a good 
morning : I'm not very well. [Exit. 

Mrs. Can. O dear ! she changes colour very 
much. 

Lady Sneer. Do, Mrs. Candour, follow her : she 
may want assistance. 

Mrs. Can. That I will, with all my soul, 
ma'am. — Poor dear girl, who knows what her situ- 
ation may be ! [Exit. 

Lady Sneer. 'Twas nothing but that she could 
not bear to hear Charles reflected on, notwith- 
standing their difference. 

Sir Ben. The young lady's penchant is obvious. 

Crab. But, Benjamin, you must not give up the 
pursuit for that : follow her, and put her into good 
humour. Repeat her some of your own verses. 
Come, I'll assist you. 

Sir Ben. Mr. Surface, I did not mean to hurt 
you ; but depend on't your brother is utterly un- 
lone. 

Crab. O Lud, ay ! undone as ever man was. — 
an't raise a guinea ! 

Sir Ben. And everything sold, I'm told, that 
as loveable. 

b. I have seen one that was at his house. — 



Not a thing left but some empty bottles that were 
overlooked, and the family pictures, which I believe 
are framed in the wainscots. 

Sir Ben. And I'm very sorry, also, to hear some 
bad stories against him. [Going. 

Crab. Oh ! he has done many mean things, 
that's certain. 

Sir Ben. But, however, as he's your brother — 

[Going. 

Crab. We'll tell you all another opportunity. 

[Exeunt Crastree and Sir Benjamin. 

Lady Sneer. Ha ! ha ! 'tis very hard for them 
to leave a subject they have not quite run down. 

Jos. Surf. And I believe the abuse was no more 
acceptable to your ladyship than Maria. 

Lady Sneer. I doubt her affections are farther 
engaged than we imagine. But the family are to 
be here this evening, so you may as well dine 
where you are, and we shall have an opportunity of 
observing farther ; in the mean time, I'll go and 
plot mischief, and you shall study sentiment. 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE 11.— A Room in Sir Peter Teazle's 
House. 

Enter Sir Peter Teazle. 

Sir Pet. When an old bachelor marries a young 
wife, what is he to expect ? 'Tis now six months 
since lady Teazle made me the happiest of men — 
and I have been the most miserable dog ever since ! 
We tifted a little going to church, and fairly quar- 
relled before the bells had done ringing. I was 
more than once nearly choked with gall during the 
honeymoon, and had lost all comfort in life before 
my friends had done wishing me joy. Yet I chose 
with caution — a girl bred wholly in the country, 
who never knew luxury beyond one silk gown, nor 
dissipation above the annual gala of a race ball. 
Yet now she plays her part in all the extravagant 
fopperies of the fashion and the town, with as 
ready a grace as if she had never seen a bush or a 
grass-plot out of Grosvenor-square ! I am sneered 
at by all my acquaintance, and paragraphed in the 
newspapers. She dissipates my fortune, and con- 
tradicts all my humours ; yet the worst of it is, I 
doubt I love her, or I should never bear all this. 
However, I'll never be weak enough to own it. 

Enter Rowley. 

Row. Oh ! sir Peter, your servant : how is it 
with you, sir ? 

Sir Pet. Very bad, master Rowley, very bad. 
I meet with nothing but crosses and vexations. 

Row. What can have happened to trouble you 
since yesterday ? 

Sir Pet. A good question to a married man ! 

Row. Nay, I'm sure your lady, sir Peter, can't 
be the cause of your uneasiness. 

Sir Pet. Why, has anybody told you she was 
dead ? 

Row. Come, come, sir Peter, you love her, not- 
withstanding your tempers don't exactly agree. 

Sir Pet. But the fault is entirely hers, master 
Rowley. I am, myself, the sweetest tempered man 
alive, and hate a teasing temper ; and so I tell her 
a hundred times a day. 

Row. Indeed ! 

Sir Pet. Ay ; and what is very extraordinary, 
G 2 



84 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 



ACT II. 



in all our disputes she is always in the wrong ! 
But lady Sneerwell, and the set she meets at her 
house, encourage the perverseness of her disposi- 
tion. — Then, to complete my vexation, Maria, my 
ward, whom I ought to have the power over, is 
determined to turn rebel too, and absolutely re- 
fuses the man whom I have long resolved on for 
her husband ; meaning, I suppose, to bestow her- 
self on his profligate brother. 

Row. You know, sir Peter, I have always taken 
the liberty to differ with you on the subject of these 
two young gentlemen. I only wish you may not 
be deceived. in your opinion of the elder. For 
Charles, my life on't ! he will retrieve his errors 
yet. Their worthy father, once my honoured mas- 
ter, was, at his years, nearly as wild a spark ; yet, 
when he died, he did not leave a more benevolent 
heart to lament his loss. 

Sir Pet. You are wrong, master Rowley. On 
their father's death, you know, I acted as a kind 
of guardian to them both, till their uncle sir Oliver's 
liberality gave them an early independence : of 
course, no person could have more opportunities 
of judging of their hearts, and I was never mistaken 
in my life. Joseph is indeed a model for the 
young men of the age. He is a man of sentiment, 
and acts up to the sentiments he professes ; but 
for the other, take my word for't, if he had any 
grain of virtue by descent, he has dissipated it with 
the rest of his inheritance. Ah ! my old friend, 
sir Oliver, will be deeply mortified when he finds 
how part of his bounty has been misapplied. 

Row. I am sorry to find you so violent against 
the young man, because this may be the most 
critical period of his fortune. I came hither with 
news that will surprise you. 



Sir Pet. What ! let me hear. 

Row. Sir Oliver is arrived, and at this moment 
in town. 

Sir Pet. How ! you astonish me ! I thought 
you did not expect him this month. 

Row. I did not : but his passage has been re- 
markably quick. 

Sir Pet. Egad, I shall rejoice to see my old 
friend. 'Tis fifteen years since we met. — We have 
had many a day together : — but does he still enjoin 
us not to inform his nephews of his arrival ? 

Row. Most strictly. He means, before it is 
known, to make some trial of their dispositions. 

Sir Pet. Ah ! there needs no art to discover 
their merits — he shall have his way : but, pray, 
does he know I am married ? 

Row. Yes, and will soon wish you joy. 

Sir Pet. What, as we drink health to a friend 
in a consumption ! Ah ! Oliver will laugh at me. 
We used to rail at matrimony together, and he has 
been steady to his text. — Well, he must be soon at 
my house, though — I'll instantly give orders for his 
reception. — But, master Rowley, don't drop a word 
that lady Teazle and I ever disagree. 

Row. By no means. 

Sir Pet. For I should never be able to stand 
Noll's jokes ; so I'd have him think, Lord forgive 
me ! that we are a very happy couple. 

Row. I understand you : — but then you must be 
very careful not to differ while he is in the house 
with you. 

Sir Pet. Egad, and so we must — and that's im- 
possible. Ah ! master Rowley, when an old 
bachelor marries a young wife, he deserves — no 
— the crime carries its punishment along with it. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT II. 



SCENE I A Room in Sir Peter Teazle's 

House. 

Enter Sir Peter and Lady Teazle. 

Sir Pet. Lady Teazle, lady Teazle, I'll not bear 
it! 

Lady Teaz. Sir Peter, sir Peter, you may bear 
it or not, as you please ; but I ought to have my 
own way in everything, and what's more, I will, 
too. What ! though I was educated in the country, 
I know very well that women of fashion in Lon- 
don are accountable to nobody after they are 
married. 

Sir Pet. Very well, ma'am, very well ; — so a 
husband is to have no influence, no authority ? 

Lady Teaz. Authority ! no to be sure : — if you 
wanted authority over me, you should have adopted 
me, and not married me : I am sure you were old 
enough. 

Sir Pet. Old enough ! — ay — there it is. Well, 
well, lady Teazle, though my life may be made un- 
happy by your temper, I'll not be ruined by your 
extravagance. 

Lady Teaz. My extravagance ! I'm sure I'm 
not more extravagant than a woman of fashion 
ought to be. 

Sir Pet. No, no, madam, you shall throw away 



no more sums on such unmeaning luxury. 'Slife ! 
to spend as much to furnish your dressing-room 
with flowers in winter as would suffice to turn the 
Pantheon into a greenhouse, and give a. fete cham- 
petre at Christmas. 

Lady Teaz. And am L to blame, sir Peter, be- 
cause flowers are dear in cold weather ? You 
should find fault with the climate, and not with me. 
For my part, I'm sure, I wish it was spring all the 
year round, and that roses grew under our feet ! 

Sir Pet. Oons ! madam — if you had been born 
to this, I should'nt wonder at your talking thus ; 
but you forget what your situation was when I mar- 
ried you. 

Lady Teaz. No, no, I don't ; 'twas a very dis- 
agreeable one, or I should never have married you. 

Sir Pet. Yes, .yes, madam, you were then in 
somewhat a humbler style ; — the daughter of a 
plain country squire. Recollect, lady Teazle, 
when I saw you first sitting at your tambour, in a 
pretty-figured linen gown, with a bunch of keys at 
your side ; your hair combed smooth over a roll, 
and your apartment hung round with fruits in 
worsted, of your own working. 

Lady Teaz. O, yes ! I remember it very we. I, 
and a curious life I led. — My daily occupation ;o 
inspect the dairy, superintend the poultry, ma' e 



SCENE II. 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 



85 



extracts from the family receipt-book, — and comb 
my aunt Deborah's lapdog. 

Sir Pet. Yes, yes, ma'am, 'twas so indeed. 

Lady Teaz. And then you know, my evening ! 
amusements ! To draw patterns for ruffles, which I j 
had not materials to make up ; to play pope Joan 
with the curate ; to read a sermon to my aunt ; or 
to be stuck down to an old spinet to strum my 
father to sleep after a fox-chase. 

Sir Pet. I am glad you have so good a memory. 
Yes, madam, these were the recreations I took 
you from ; but now you must have your coach — 
vis-a-vis — and three powdered footmen before your 
chair ; and, in the summer, a pair of white cats to 
draw you to Kensington-gardens. No recollection, 
I suppose, when you were content to ride double, 
behind the butler, on a docked coach-horse. 

Lady Teaz. No — I swear I never did that : I 
deny the butler and the coach-horse. 

Sir Pet. This, madam, was your situation ; and 
what have I done for you ? I have made you a 
woman of fashion, of fortune, of rank ; in short, 
I have made you my wife. 

Lady Teaz. Well then, — and there is but one 
thing more you can make me to add to the obliga- 
tion, and that is — 

Sir Pet. My widow, I suppose ? 

Lady Teaz. Hem ! hem ! 

Sir Pet. I thank you, madam— but don't flatter 
yourself ; for though your ill conduct may disturb 
my peace, it shall never break my heart, I promise 
you : however, I am equally obliged to you for the 
hint. 

Lady Teaz. Then why will you endeavour to 
make yourself so disagreeable to me, and thwart 
me in every little elegant expense ? 

Sir Pet. 'Slife, madam, I say, had you any of 
these little elegant expenses when you married 
me ? 

Lady Teaz. Lud, sir Peter ! would you have me 
be out of the fashion 

Sir Pet. The fashion, indeed ! what had you to 
do with the fashion before you married me ? 

Lady Teaz. For my part, I should think you 
would like to have your wife thought a woman of 
taste. 

Sir Pet. Ay — there again — taste !— Zounds ! 
madam, you had no taste when you married me ! 

Lady Teaz. That's very true indeed, sir Peter ; 
and after having married you, I should never pre- 
tend to taste again, I allow. But now, sir Peter, 
if we have finished our daily jangle, I presume I 
may go to my engagement at lady Sneerwell's. 

Sir Pet. Ay, there's another precious circum- 
stance — a charming set of acquaintance you have 
made there ! 

Lady Teaz. Nay, sir Peter, they are all people 
of rank and fortune, and remarkably tenacious of 
reputation. 

Sir Pet. Yes, egad, they are tenacious of repu- 
tation with a vengeance ; for they don't choose 
anybody should have a character but themselves ! 
— Such a crew ! Ah ! many a wretch has rid on a 
hurdle who has done less mischief than these 
utterers of forged tales, coiners of scandal, and 
clippers of reputation. 

Lady Teaz. What, would you restrain the free- 
dom of speech ? 

Sir Pet. Ah ! they have made you just as bad 
as any one of the society. 



Lady Teaz. Why, I believe I do bear a part 
with a tolerable grace. But I vow I bear no malice 
against the people I abuse. — When I say an ill- 
natured thing, 'tis out of pure good-humour ; and 
I take it for granted, they deal exactly in the same 
manner with me. But, sir Peter, you know you 
promised to come to lady Sneerwell's too. 

Sir Pet. Well, weU, I'll call in just to look after 
my own character. 

Lady Teaz. Then indeed you must make haste 
after me, or you'll be too late. So, good-bye to ye. 

\_Exil. 

Sir Pet. So — I have gained much by my 
intended expostulation ! Yet, with what a charm- 
ing air she contradicts everything 1 say, and how 
pleasingly she shows her contempt for my authority ! 
Well, though I can't make her love me, there is 
great satisfaction in quarrelling with her ; and I 
think she never appears to such advantage as when 
she is doing everything in her power to plague me. 

lExit. 



SCENE II. — A Room in Lady Sneerwell's 
House. 

Lady Sneerwell, Mrs. Candour, Crabtree, Sir Benjamin 
Backbite, and Joseph Surface, discovered. 

Lady Sneer. Nay, positively, we will hear it. 

Jos. Surf. Yes, yes, the epigram, by all means. 

Sir Ben. O plague on't, uncle ! 'tis mere non- 
sense. 

Crab. No, no ; 'fore Gad, very clever for an 
extempore ! 

Sir Ben. But, ladies, you should be acquainted 
with the circumstance. You must know, that one 
day last week, as lady Betty Curricle was taking 
the dust in Hyde Park, in a sort of duodecimo 
phaeton, she desired me to write some verses on 
her ponies ; upon which I took out my pocket- 
book, and, in one moment, produced the follow- 
ing :— 
Sure never were seen two such beautiful ponies ; 
Other horses are clowns, but these macaronies : 
To give them this title I'm sure can't be wrong, 
Their legs are so slim, and their tails are so long. 

Crab. There, ladies, done in the smack of a 
whip, and on horseback too. 

Jos. Surf. A very Phoebus, mounted — indeed, 
sir Benjamin ! 

Sir Ben. O dear, sir ! trifles — trifles. 

Enter Lady Teazle and Maria. 

Mrs. Can. I must have a copy. 

Lady Sneer. Lady Teazle, I hope we shall see 
sir Peter ? 

Lady Teaz. I believe he'll wait on your lady- 
ship presently. 

Lady Sneer. Maria, my love, you look grave. 
Come, you shall sit down to piquet with Mr. Sur- 
face. 

Mar. I take very little pleasure in cards — how- 
ever, I'll do as you please. 

Lady Teaz. I am surprised Mr. Surface should 
sit down with her ; I thought he would have 
embraced this opportunity of speaking to me, 
before sir Peter came. [Aside. 

Mrs. Can. Now, I'll die, but you are so scan- 
dalous, I'll forswear your society. 

Lady Teaz. What's the matter, Mrs. Candour s 



86 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 



Mrs. Can. They'll not allow our friend Miss 
Vermilion to be handsome. 

Lady Sneer. Oh, surely, she is a pretty woman. 

Crab. I am very glad you think so, ma'am. 

Mrs. Can. She has a charming fresh colour. 

Lady Teaz. Yes, when it is fresh put on. 

Mrs. Can. O f y ! I'll swear her colour is 
natural : I have seen it come and go ! 

Lady Teaz. I dare swear you have, ma'am : it 
goes off at night, and comes again in the morning. 

Sir Ben. True, ma'am, it not only comes and 
goes, but, what's more— egad, her maid can fetch 
and carry it ! 

Mrs. Can. Ha ! ha ! ha ! how I hate to hear 
you talk so ! But surely now, her sister is, or 
was, very handsome. 

Crab. Who ? Mrs. Evergreen ? O Lord ! she's 
six-and-fifty if she's an hour ! 

Mrs. Can. Now positively you wrong her ; 
fifty-two or fifty-three is the utmost — and I don't 
think she looks more. 

Sir Ben. Ah ! there's no judging by her looks, 
unless one could see her face. 

Lady Sneer. Well, well, if Mrs. Evergreen does 
take some pains to repair the ravages of time, you 
must allow she effects it with great ingenuity ; and 
surely that's better than the careless manner in 
which the widow Ochre chalks her wrinkles. 

Sir Ben. Nay, now, lady Sneerwell, you are 
severe upon the widow. Come, come, 'tis not that 
she paints so ill — but, when she has finished her 
face, she joins it so badly to her neck, that she looks 
like a mended statue, in which the connoisseur 
sees at once that the head's modern, though the 
trunk's antique. 

Crab. Ha ! ha ! ha ! well said, nephew ! 

Mrs. Can. Ha! ha! ha! well, you make me 
laugh ; but I vow I hate you for it. — What do you 
think of Miss Simper ? 

Sir Ben. Why, she has very pretty teeth. 

Lady Teaz. Yes, and on that account, when 
she is neither speaking nor laughing (which very 
seldom happens), she never absolutely shuts her 
mouth, but leaves it always on a-jar, as it were, — 
thus. [Shows her teeth. 

Mrs. Can. How can you be so ill-natured ? 

Lady Teaz. Nay, I allow even that's better 
than the pains Mrs. Prim takes to conceal her 
losses in front. She draws her mouth till it posi- 
tively resembles the aperture of a poor's box, and 
all her words appear to slide out edgewise, as it 
were, — thus — How do you do, madam ? Yes, 
madam. 

Lady Sneer. Very well, Lady Teazle ; I see 
you can be a little severe. 

Lady Teaz. In defence of a friend it is but 
justice. — But here comes sir Peter to spoil our 
pleasantry. 

Enter Sir Peter Teazle. 

Sir Pet. Ladies, your most obedient. — [Aside."] 
Mercy on me ! here is the whole set ! a character 
dead at every word, I suppose. 

Mrs. Can. I am rejoiced you are come, sir 
Peter. They have been so censorious — and lady 
Teazle as bad as any one. 

Sir Pet. It must be very distressing to you, 
Mrs. Candour, I dare swear. 

Mrs. Can. Oh, they will allow good qualities to 
nobody ; not even good-nature to our friend Mrs. 
Pursy. 



Lady Teaz. What, the fat dowager who was at 
Mrs. Quadrille's last night ? 

Mrs. Can. Nay, her bulk is her misfortune ; 
and, when she takes such pains to get rid of it, 
you ought not to reflect on her. 

Lady Sneer. That's very true, indeed. 

Lady Teaz. Yes, I know she almost lives on 
acids and small whey ; laces herself by pulleys ; 
and often in the hottest noon in summer, you may 
see her on a little squat pony, with her hair plaited 
up behind like a drummer's, and puffing round the 
Ring on a full trot. 

Mrs. Can. I thank you, lady Teazle, for defend- 
ing her. 

Sir Pet. Yes, a good defence, truly ! 

Mrs. Can. Truly, lady Teazle is as censorious 
as Miss Sallow. 

Crab. Yes, and she is a curious being to pretend 
to be censorious — an awkward gawky, without any 
one good point under heaven. 

Mrs. Can. Positively you shall not be so very 
severe. Miss Sallow is a near relation of mine by 
marriage, and, as for her person, great allowance 
is to be made ; for, let me tell you, a woman labours 
under many disadvantages who tries to pass for a 
girl at six-and-thirty. 

Lady Sneer. Though, surely, she is handsome 
still — and for the weakness in her eyes, consider- 
ing how much she reads by candlelight, it is not to 
be wondered at. 

Mrs. Can. True, and then as to her manner; 
upon my word I think it is particularly graceful, 
considering she never had the least education : for 
you know her mother was a Welsh milliner, and 
her father a sugar-baker at Bristol. 

Sir Ben. Ah ! you are both of you too good- 
natured ! 

Sir Pet. Yes, damned good-natured ! This 
their own relation ! mercy on me ! [Aside. 

Mrs. Can. For my part, I own I cannot bear to 
hear a friend ill spoken of. 

Sir Pet. No, to be sure ! 

Sir Ben. Oh ! you are of a moral turn.— Mrs. 
Candour and I can sit for an hour and hear lady 
Stucco talk sentiment. 

Lady Teaz. Nay, I vow lady Stucco is very 
well with the dessert after dinner; for she's just 
like the French fruit one cracks for mottoes — 
made up of paint and proverb. 

Mrs. Can. Well, I never will join in ridiculing 
a friend ; and so I constantly tell my cousin Ogle, 
and you all know what pretensions she has to be 
critical on beauty. 

Crab. Oh, to be sure ! she has herself the oddest 
countenance that ever was seen ; 'tis a collection 
of features from all the different countries of the 
globe. 

Sir Ben. So she has, indeed — an Irish front — 

Crab. Caledonian locks — 

Sir Ben. Dutch nose — 

Crab. Austrian lips — 

Sir Ben. Complexion of a Spaniard — 

Crab. And teeth a la Chinoise — 

Sir Ben. In short, her face resembles a table 
d'hote at Spa — where no two guests are of a 
nation — 

Crab. Or a congress at the close of a general 
war — wherein all the members, even to her eyes, 
appear to have a different interest, and her nose and 
chin are the only parties likely to join issue. 



SCENE II. 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 



8V 



Mrs. Can. Ha ! ha ! ha I 

Sir Pet. Mercy on my life ! — a person they dine 
with twice a week ! [Aside. 

Lady Sneer. Go, go ; you are a couple of provok- 
ing toads. 

Mrs. Can. Nay, but I vow you shall not carry 
the laugh off so — for give me leave to say, that 
Mrs. Ogle — 

Sir Pet. Madam, madam, I beg your pardon — 
there's no stopping these good gentlemen's tongues. 
— But when I tell you, Mrs. Candour, that the 
lady they are abusing is a particular friend of mine, 
I hope you'll not take her part. 

Lady Sneer. Ha! ha! ha! well said, sir Peter! 
but you are a cruel creature, — too phlegmatic 
yourself for a jest, and too peevish to allow wit in 
others. 

Sir Pet. Ah ! madam, true wit is more nearly 
allied to good-nature than your ladyship is aware of. 

Lady Teaz. True, sir Peter : I believe they are 
so near akin that they can never be united. 

Sir Ben. Or rather, madam, suppose them to 
be man and wife, because one seldom sees them 
together. 

Lady Teaz. But sir Peter is such an enemy to 
scandal, I believe he would have it put down by 
parliament. 

Sir Pet. 'Fore heaven, madam, if they were to 
consider the sporting with reputation of as much 
importance as poaching on manors, and pass an 
act for the preservation of fame, I believe there are 
many would thank them for the bill. 

Lady Sneer. O Lud ! sir Peter ; would you 
deprive us of our privileges ? 

Sir Pet. Ay, madam ; and then no person should 
be permitted to kill characters and run down repu- 
tations, but qualified old maids and disappointed 
widows. 

Lady Sneer. Go, you monster ! 

Mrs. Can* But, surely, you would not be quite 
so severe on those who only report what they 
hear ? 

Sir Pet*. Yes, madam, I would have law merchant 
for them too ; and in all cases of slander currency, 
whenever the drawer of the lie was not to be found, 
the injured parties should have a right to come on 
any of the indorsers. 

Crab. Well, for my part, I believe there never 
was a scandalous tale without some foundation. 

Sir Pet. Oh, nine out of ten of the malicious 
inventions are founded on some ridiculous misre- 
presentation ! 

Lady Sneer. Come, ladies, shall we sit down to 
cards in the next room ? 

Enter Servant, who whispers Sir Peter. 

Sir Pet. I'll be with them directly. — [Exit 
Servant.] I'll get away unperceived. [Aside. 

Lady Sneer. Sir Peter, you are not going to 
leave us ? 

Sir Pet. Your ladyship must excuse me ; I'm 
called away by particular business. But I leave 
my character behind me. [Exit. 

Sir Ben. Weli — certainly, lady Teazle, that lord 
of yours is a strange being : I could tell you some 
stories of him would make you laugh heartily if he 
were not your husband. 

Lady Teaz. Oh, pray don't mind that ; — come, 
do let's hear them. 

[Exeunt all but Joseph Surface and Maria. 



Jos. Surf. Maria, I see you have no satisfaction 
in this society. 

Mar. How is it possible I should ? — If to raise 
malicious smiles at the infirmities or misfortunes 
of those who have never injured us be the province 
of wit or humour, Heaven grant me a double por- 
tion of dulness ! 

Jos. Surf. Yet they appear more ill-natured than 
they are ; they have no malice at heart. 

Mar. Then is their conduct still more contemp- 
tible ; for, in my opinion, nothing could excuse the 
interference of their tongues, but a natural and 
uncontrollable bitterness of mind. 

Jos. Surf. Undoubtedly, madam ; and it has 
always been a sentiment of mine, that to propagate 
a malicious truth wantonly is more despicable than 
to falsify from revenge. But can you, Maria, feel 
thus for others, and be unkind to me alone? Is 
hope to be denied the tenderest passion ? 

Mar. Why will you distress me by renewing 
the subject ? 

Jos. Surf. Ah, Maria ! you would not treat me 
thus, and oppose your guardian, sir Peter's will, 
but that I see that profligate Charles is still a 
favoured rival. 

Mar. Ungenerously urged ! — But whatever my 
sentiments are for that unfortunate young man, be 
assured I shall not feel more bound to give him 
up, because his distresses have lost him the regard 
even of a brother. 

Jos. Surf. Nay, but Maria, do not leave me with 
a frown : by all that's honest, I swear — [Kneels. 

Re-enter Lady Teazle behind. 

[Aside.'] Gad's life, here's lady Teazle— [Aloud to 
Maria.] You must not — no, you shall not — for, 
though I have the greatest regard for lady Teazle — 

Mar. Lady Teazle ! 

Jos. Surf. Yet were sir Peter to suspect — 

Lady Teaz. [Coming forward.] What is this, 
pray ? Do you take her for me ? — Child, you are 
wanted in the next room. — [Exit Maria.] What 
is all this, pray ? 

Jos. Surf. Oh, the most unlucky circumstance 
in nature ! Maria has somehow suspected the tender 
concern I have for your happiness, and threatened 
to acquaint sir Peter with her suspicions, and I 
was just endeavouring to reason with her when you 
came in. 

Lady Teaz. Indeed ! but you seemed to adopt 
a very tender mode of reasoning — do you usually 
argue on your knees ? 

Jos. Surf Oh, she's a child, and I thought a 
little bombast — But, lady Teazle, when are you to 
give me your judgment on my library, as you 
promised ? 

Lady Teaz. No, no ; I begin to think it would 
be imprudent, and you know I admit you as a lover 
no farther than fashion sanctions. 

Jos. Surf. True — a mere platonic cicisbeo — what 
every wife is entitled to. 

Lady Teaz. Certainly, one must not be out of 
the fashion. — However, I have so much of my 
country prejudices left, that, though sir Peter's 
ill-humour may vex me ever so, it never shall 
provoke me to — 

Jos. Surf. The only revenge in your power. — 
Well — I applaud your moderation. 

Lady Teaz. Go — you are an insinuating wretch ! 
—But we shall be missed — let us join the company. 



88 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 



Jos. Surf. But we had best not return together. 

Lady Teaz. Well, don't stay ; for Maria shan't 
come to hear any more of your reasoning, I pro- 
mise you. {Exit. 

Jos. Surf. A curious dilemma my politics have 
run me into S I wanted, at first, only to ingratiate 
myself with lady Teazle, that she might not be my 
enemy with Maria ; and I have, I don't know how, 
become her serious lover. Sincerely I begin to wish 
I had never made such a point of gaining so very 
good a character, for it has led me into so many 
cursed rogueries that I doubt I shall be exposed at 
last. [Exit. 



SCENE III. — ^4 Room in Sir Peter Teazle's 

House. 

Enter Sir Oliver Surface and Rowley. 

Sir Oliv. Ha ! ha ! ha ! so my old friend is mar- 
ried, hey ?— a young wife out of the country. — Ha ! 
ha ! ha ! that he should have stood bluff to old 
bachelor so long, and sink into a husband at last ! 

Row. But you must not rally him on the sub- 
ject, sir Oliver j 'tis a tender point, I assure you, 
though he has been married only seven months. 

Sir Oliv. Then he has been just half a year on 
the stool of repentance ! — Poor Peter ! — But you 
say he has entirely given up Charles, — never sees 
him, hey? 

Row. His prejudice against him is astonishing, 
and I am sure greatly increased by a jealousy of 
him with lady Teazle, which he has industriously 
been led into by a scandalous society in the neigh- 
bourhood, who have contributed not a little to 
Charles's ill name. Whereas, the truth is, I 
believe, if the lady is partial to either of them, his 
brother is the favourite. 

Sir Oliv. Ay, I know there are a set of mali- 
cious, prating, prudent gossips, both male and 
female, who murder characters to kill time ; and 
will rob a young fellow of his good name before he 
has years to know the value of it. But I am not 
to be prejudiced against my nephew by such, I pro- 
mise you ! No, no ; if Charles has done nothing false 
or mean, I shall compound for his extravagance. 

Roiv. Then, my life on't, you will reclaim him. 
Ah, sir, it gives me new life to find that your heart 
is not turned against him ; and that the son of my 
good old master has one friend, however, left. 

Sir Oliv. What ! shall I forget, master Rowley, 
when I was at his years myself ? Egad, my brother 
and I were neither of us very prudent youths ; and 
yet, I believe, you have not seen many better men 
than your old master was ? 

Row. Sir, 'tis this reflection gives me assurance 
that Charles may yet be a credit to his family. — 
But here comes sir Peter. 

Sir Oliv. Egad, so he does ! — Mercy on me ! 
he's greatly altered, and seems to have a settled 
married look 1 One may read husband in his face 
ac this distance ! 



Enter Sir Peter Teazle. 

Sir Pet. Ha ! sir Oliver ! my old friend ! — Wel- 
come to England a thousand times ! 

Sir Oliv. Thank you, thank you, sir Peter ! and 
i'faith I am glad to find you well, believe me I 

Sir Pet. Oh ! 'tis a long time since we met — 
fifteen years, I doubt, sir Oliver, and many a cross 
accident in the time. 

Sir Oliv. Ay, I have had my share. But, what ! 
I find you are married, hey? — Well, well, it can't 
be helped ; and so — I wish you joy with all my 
heart 1 

Sir Pet. Thank you, thank you, sir Oliver 

Yes, I have entered into — the happy state ; — but 
we'll not talk of that now. 

Sir Oliv. True, true, sir Peter ; old friends 

should not begin on grievances at first meeting 

No, no, no. — 

Row. [Aside to Sir Oliver.] Take care, pray, 
sir - 

Sir Oliv. Well, so one of my nephews is a wild 
fellow, hey ? 

Sir Pet. Wild ! — ah ! my old friend, I grieve 
for your disappointment there ; he's a lost young 
man, indeed. However, his brother will make 
you amends ; Joseph is, indeed, what a youth 
should be : everybody in the world speaks well of 
him. 

Sir Oliv. I am sorry to hear it ; he has too 
good a character to be an honest fellow. Every- 
body speaks well of him ! — Psha ! then he has 
bowed as low to knaves and fools as to the honest 
dignity of genius and virtue. 

Sir Pet. What, sir Oliver ! do you blame him 
for not making enemies ? 

Sir Oliv. Yes, if he has merit enough to deserve 
them. 

Sir Pet. Well, well — you'll be convinced when 
you know him. 'Tis edification to hear him con- 
verse ; he professes the noblest sentiments. 

Sir Oliv. Oh, plague of his sentiments ! If he 
salutes me with a scrap of morality in his mouth, 
I shall be sick directly. — But, however, don't mis- 
take me, sir Peter ; I don't mean to defend Charles's 
errors : but before I form my judgment of either 
of them, I intend to make a trial of their hearts ; 
and my friend Rowley and I have planned some- 
thing for the purpose. 

Row. And sir Peter shall own for once he has 
been mistaken. 

Sir Pet. Oh, my life on Joseph's honour ! 

Sir Oliv. Well — come, give us a bottle of good 
wine, and we'll drink the lads' health, and tell you 
our scheme. 

Sir Pet. Allons, then ! 

Sir Oliv. And don't, sir Peter, be so severe 
against your old friend's son. Odds my life ! I 
am not sorry that he has run out of the course a 
little : for my part, I hate to see prudence clinging 
to the green suckers of youth ; 'tis like ivy round a 
sapling, and spoils the growth of the tree. [Exeunt 



SCENE I. 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 



89 



ACT III. 



SCENE L — A Room in Sir Peter Teazle's 
House. 

Enter Sir Peter Teazle, Sir Oliver Surface, and 
Rowley. 

Sir Pet. Well, then, we will see this fellow first, 
and have our wine afterwards : — but how is this, 
master Rowley? I don't see the jet of your 
scheme. 

Row. Why, sir, this Mr. Stanley, who I was 
speaking of, is nearly related to them by their 
mother. He was a merchant in Dublin, but has 
been ruined by a series of undeserved misfortunes. 
He has applied, by letter, to Mr. Surface and 
Charles : from the former he has received nothing 
but evasive promises of future service, while Charles 
has done all that his extravagance has left him 
power to do ; and he is, at this time, endeavouring 
to raise a sum of money, part of which, in the 
midst of his own distresses, I know he intends for 
the service of poor Stanley. 

Sir Oliv. Ah ! he is my brother's son. 

Sir Pet. Well, but how is sir Oliver personally 
to— 

Row. Why, sir, I will inform Charles and his 
brother, that Stanley has obtained permission to 
apply personally to his friends, and as they have 
neither of them ever seen him, let sir Oliver assume 
his character, and he will have a fair opportunity 
of judging, at least, of the benevolence of their dis- 
positions ; and believe me, sir, you will find in the 
youngest brother, one who, in the midst of folly 
and dissipation, has still, as our immortal bard 
expresses it, 

" a heart to pity, and a hand, 
Open as day, for melting charity." 

Sir Pet. Psha ! what signifies his having an 
open hand or purse either, when he has nothing 
left to give? Well, well, make the trial, if you 
please. — But where is the fellow whom you brought 
for sir Oliver to examine, relative to Charles's 
affairs ? 

Row. Below, waiting his commands, and no one 
can give him better intelligence. — This, sir Oliver, 
is a friendly Jew, who, to do him justice, has done 
everything in his power to bring your nephew to a 
proper sense of his extravagance. 

Sir Pet. Pray let us have him in. 

Row. Desire Mr. Moses to walk up stairs. 

[Calls to Servant. 

Sir Pet. But, pray, why should you suppose he 
will speak the truth ? 

Row. Oh ! I have convinced him that he has 
no chance of recovering certain sums advanced to 
Charles, but through the bounty of sir Oliver, 
who he knows is arrived ; so that you may depend 
on his fidelity to his own interests. I have also 
another evidence in my power, one Snake, whom I 
have detected in a matter little short of forgery, 
and shall speedily produce him to remove some of 
your prejudices. 

Sir Pet. I have heard too much on that subject. 

Row. Here comes the honest Israelite. — 



Enter Moses. 
— This is sir Oliver. 

Sir Oliv. Sir, I understand you have lately had 
great dealings with my nephew Charles. 

Mos. Yes, sir Oliver, I have done all I could 
for him : but he was ruined before he came to me 
for assistance. 

Sir Oliv. That was unlucky, truly ; for you have 
had no opportunity of showing your talents. 

Mos. None at all ; I hadn't the pleasure of 
knowing his distresses till he was some thousands 
worse than nothing. 

Sir Oliv. Unfortunate, indeed ! — But I suppose 
you have done all in your power for him, honest 
Moses ? 

Mos. Yes, he knows that. This very evening I 
was to have brought him a gentleman from the city, 
who does not know him, and will, I believe, ad- 
vance him some money. 

Sir Pet. What, one Charles has never had money 
from before ? 

Mos. Yes, Mr. Premium, of Crutched Priars, 
formerly a broker. 

Sir Pet. Egad, sir Oliver, a thought strikes me ! 
— Charles, you say, does not know Mr. Premium ? 

Mos. Not at all. 

Sir Pet. Now then, sir Oliver, you may have a 
better opportunity of satisfying yourself than by 
an old romancing tale of a poor relation : go with 
my friend Moses, and represent Premium, and 
then, I'll answer for it, you'll see your nephew in 
all his glory. 

Sir Oliv. Egad, I like this idea better than the 
other, and I may visit Joseph afterwards as old 
Stanley. 

Sir Pet. True — so you may. 

Row. Well, this is taking Charles rather at a 
disadvantage, to be sure. — However, Moses, you 
understand sir Peter, and will be faithful ? 

Mos. You may depend upon me. — This is near 
the time I was to have gone. 

Sir Oliv. I'll accompany you as soon as you 
please, Moses — But hold ! 1 have forgot one thing 
— how the plague shall I be able to pass for a Jew ? 

Mos. There's no need — the principal is Christian. 

Sir Oliv. Is he ? I'm very sorry to hear it. 
But then again, an't I rather too smartly dressed 
to look like a money-lender ? 

Sir Pet. Not at all ; 'twould not be cut of cha- 
racter, if you went in your own carriage. — Would 
it, Moses ? 

Mos. Not in the least. 

Sir Oliv. Well, but how must I talk ? there's 
certainly some cant of usury and mode of treating 
that I ought to know. 

Sir Pet. Oh, there's not much to learn. The 
great point, as I take it, is to be exorbitant enough 
in your demands. — Hey, Moses ? 

Mos. Yes, that's a very great point. 

Sir Oliv. I'll answer for't I'll not be wanting in 
that. I'll ask him eight or ten per cent, on the 
loan, at least. 

Mos. If you ask him no more than that, you'll 
be discovered immediately. 



90 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 



Sir Oliv. Hey ! what the plague ! how much 
then ? 

Mos. That depends upon the circumstances. If 
he appears not very anxious for the supply, you 
should require only forty or fifty per cent. ; but if 
you find him in great distress, and want the 
moneys very bad, you may ask double. 

Sir Pet. A good honest trade you're learning, 
sir Oliver ! 

Sir Oliv. Truly, I think so — and not unprofit- 
able. 

Mos. Then, you know, you haven't the moneys 
yourself, but are forced to borrow them for him of 
an old friend. 

Sir Oliv. Oh ! I borrow it of a friend, do I ? 

Mos. And your friend is an unconscionable 
dog : but you can't help that. 

Sir Oliv. My friend an unconscionable dog ? 

Mos. Yes, and he himself has not the moneys 
by him, but is forced to sell stock at a great loss. 

Sir Oliv. He is forced to sell stock at a great 
loss, is he ? Well, that's very kind of him. 

Sir Pet. I'faith, sir Oliver — Mr. Premium, I 
mean, you'll soon be master of the trade. — But, 
Moses ! would not you have him run out a little 
against the annuity bill ? That would be in cha- 
racter, I should think. 

Mos. Very much. 

Row. And lament that a young man now must 
be at years of discretion before he is suffered to 
ruin himself? 

Mos. Ay, great pity ! 

Sir Pet. And abuse the public for allowing 
merit to an act whose only object is to snatch mis- 
fortune and imprudence from the rapacious gripe 
of usury, and give the minor a chance of inherit- 
ing his estate without being undone by coming 
into possession. 

Sir Oliv. So, so — Moses shall give me farther 
instructions as we go together. 

Sir Pet. You will not have much time, for 
your nephew lives hard by. 

Sir Oliv. Oh, never fear ! my tutor appears so 
able, that though Charles lived in the next street, 
it must be my own fault if I am not a complete 
rogue before I turn the corner. {.Exit with Moses. 

Sir Pet. So, now, I think sir Oliver will be 
convinced : you are partial, Rowley, and would 
have prepared Charles for the other plot. 

Row. No, upon my word, sir Peter. 

Sir Pet. Well, go bring me this Snake, and I'll 
hear what he has to say presently. — I see Maria, 
and want to speak with her. — {Exit Rowley.] I 
should be glad to be convinced my suspicions of 
lady Teazle and Charles were unjust. I have 
never yet opened my mind on this subject to my 
friend Joseph —I am determined I will do it — he 
will give me his opinion sincerely. 

Enter Maria. 

So, child, has Mr. Surface returned with you ? 

Mar. No, sir ; he was engaged. 

Sir Pet. Well, Maria, do you not reflect, the 
more you converse with that amiable young man, 
what return his partiality for you deserves ? 

Mar. Indeed, sir Peter, your frequent importu- 
nity on this subject distresses me extremely — you 
compel me to declare, that I know no man who 
has ever paid me a particular attention, whom I 
would not prefer to Mr. Surface. 



Sir Peter. So — here's perverseness ! — No, no, 
Maria, 'tis Charles only whom you would prefer. 
'Tis evident his vices and follies have won your 
heart. 

Mar. This is unkind, sir. You know I have 
obeyed you in neither seeing nor corresponding 
with him : I have heard enough to convince me 
that he is unworthy my regard. Yet I cannot 
think it culpable, if, while my understanding 
severely condemns his vices, my heart suggests 
some pity for his distresses. 

Sir Pet. Well, well, pity him as much as you 
please ; but give your heart and hand to a wor- 
thier object. 

Mar. Never to his brother ! 

Sir Pet. Go — Perverse and obstinate ! But 
take care, madam ; you have never yet known what 
the authority of a guardian is : don't compel me 
to inform you of it. 

Mar. I can only say, you shall not have just 
reason. 'Tis true, by my father's will, I am for a 
short period bound to regard you as his substitute ; 
but must cease to think you so, when you would 
compel me to be miserable. [Exit. 

Sir Pet. Was ever man so crossed as I am ? 
everything conspiring to fret me ! I had not been 
involved in matrimony a fortnight, before her 
father, a hale and a hearty man, died, on purpose, 
I believe, for the pleasure of plaguing me with the 
care of his daughter. — But here comes my help- 
mate ! She appears in great good-humour. How 
happy I should be if I could tease her into loving 
me, though but a little ! 

Enter Lady Teazle. 

Lady Teaz. Lud ! sir Peter, I hope you 
haven't been quarrelling with Maria ? It is not 
using me well to be ill-humoured when I am not by. 

Sir Pet. Ah ! lady Teazle, you might have the 
power to make me good-humoured at all times. 

Lady Teaz. I am sure I wish I had ; for I 
want you to be in a charming sweet temper at this 
moment. Do be good-humoured now, and let me 
have two hundred pounds, will you ? 

Sir Pet. Two hundred pounds ! what, an't I 
to be in a good humour without paying for it ! But 
speak to me thus, and i'faith there's nothing I 
could refuse you. You ^shall have it ; but seal me 
a bond for the repayment. 

Lady Teaz. O no — there — my note of hand 
will do as well. [Offering her hand. 

Sir Pet. And you shall no longer reproach me 
with not giving you an independent settlement. I 
mean shortly to surprise you : — but shall we 
always live thus, hey ? 

Lady Teaz. If you please. I'm sure I don't 
care how soon we leave off quarrelling, provided 
you'll own you were tired first. 

Sir Pet. Well — then let our future contest be, 
who shall be most obliging. 

Lady Teaz. I assure you, sir Peter, good-nature 
becomes you. You look now as you did before we 
were married, when you used to walk with me 
under the elms, and tell me stories of what a gal- 
lant you were in your youth, and chuck me under 
the chin, you would ; and ask me if I thought I 
could love an old fellow, who would deny me 
nothing — didn't you ? 

Sir Pet. Yes, yes, and you were as kind and 
attentive — v 



SCENE 11. 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 



91 



Lady Teaz. Ay — so I was, and would always 
take your part, when my acquaintance used to 
abuse you, and turn you into ridicule. 

Sir Pet. Indeed ! 

Lady Teaz. Ay, and when my cousin Sophy 
has called you a stiff, peevish old bachelor, and 
laughed at me for thinking of marrying one who 
might be my father, I have always defended you, 
and said, I didn't think you so ugly by any means, 
and I dared say you'd make a very good sort of a 
husband. 

Sir Pet. And you prophesied right ; and we 
shall now be the happiest couple — 

Lady Teaz. And never differ again ? 

Sir Pet. No, never ! — though at the same time, 
indeed, my dear lady Teazle, you must watch your 
temper very seriously : for in all our little quar- 
rels, my dear, if you recollect, my love, you always 
began first. 

Lady Teaz. I beg your pardon, my dear sir 
Peter : indeed, you always gave the provocation. 

Sir Pet. Now see, my angel ! take care — con- 
tradicting isn't the way to keep friends. 

Lady Teaz. Then don't you begin it, my love ! 

Sir Pet. There, now ! you — you are going on. 
You don't perceive, my life, that you are just doing 
the very thing which you know always makes me 
angry. 

Lady Teaz. Nay, you know if you will be angry 
without any reason, my dear — 

Sir Pet. There ! now you want to quarrel 



Lady Teaz. No, I'm sure I don't : — but if you 
will be so peevish — 

Sir Pet. There now ! who begins first ? 

Lady Teaz. Why you, to be sure. I said nothing 
— but there's no bearing your temper. 

Sir Pet. No, no, madam : the fault's in your 
own temper. 

Lady Teaz. Ay, you are just what my cousin 
Sophy said you would be. 

Sir Pet. Your cousin Sophy is a forward, imper- 
tinent gipsy. 

Lady Teaz. You are a great bear, I'm sure, to 
abuse my relations. 

Sir Pet. Now may all the plagues of marriage 
be doubled on me, if ever I try to be friends with 
you any more ! 

Lady Teaz. So much the better. 

Sir Pet. No, no, madam : 'tis evident you never 
cared a pin for me, and I was a madman to marry 
you — a pert, rural coquette, that had refused half 
the honest 'squires in the neighbourhood ! 

Lady Teaz. And I am sure I was a fool to 
marry you — an old dangling bachelor, who was 
single at fifty, only because he never could meet 
with any one who would have him. 

Sir Pet. Ay, ay, madam ; but you were pleased 
enough to listen to me : you never had such an 
offer before. 

Lady Teaz. No ! didn't I refuse sir Tivy Terrier, 
who everybody said would have been a better 
match ? for his estate is just as good as yours, and 
he has broke his neck since we have been married. 

Sir Pet. I have done with you, madam ! You 
are an unfeeling, ungrateful — but there's an end of 
everything. I believe you capable of everything 
that is bad. Yes, madam, I now believe the reports 
relative to you and Charles, madam. Yes, madam, 
you and Charles are, not without grounds — 



Lady Teaz. Take care, sir Peter ! you had 
better not insinuate any such thing ! I'll not be 
suspected without cause, I promise you. 

Sir Pet. Very well, madam ! very well ! A 
separate maintenance as soon as you please. Yes, 
madam, or a divorce ! I'll make an example of 
myself for the benefit of all old bachelors. Let us 
separate, madam. 

Lady Teaz. Agreed ! agreed ! And now, my 
dear sir Peter, we are of a mind once more, we may 
be the happiest couple, and never differ again, you 
know : ha ! ha ! ha ! Well, you are going to be in 
a passion, I see, and I shall only interrupt you — 
so, bye! bye! [Exit. 

Sir Pet. Plagues and tortures ! can't I make her 
angry either ! Oh, I am the most miserable fellow! 
But I'll not bear her presuming to keep her tem- 
per : no ! she may break my heart, but she shan't 
keep her temper. [Exit. 



SCENE II.- 



-A Room in Charles Surface's 
House. 



Enter Trip, Moses, and Sir Oliver Surface. 

Trip. Here, master Moses ! if you'll stay a 
moment, I'll try whether — what's the gentleman's 
name ? 

Sir Oliv. Mr. Moses, what is my name ? 

[Aside to Moses. 

Mos. Mr. Premium. 

Trip. Premium — very well. {Exit, taking snuff. 

Sir Oliv. To judge by the servants, one wouldn't 
believe the master was ruined. But what ! — sure, 
this was my brother's house ? 

Mos. Yes, sir ; Mr. Charles bought it of Mr. 
Joseph, with the furniture, pictures, &c, just as 
the old gentleman left it. Sir Peter thought it a 
piece of extravagance in him. 

Sir Oliv. In my mind, the other's economy in 
selling it to him was more reprehensible by half. 

Re-enter Trip. 

Trip. My master says you must wait, gentle- 
men: he has company, and can't speak with you 
yet. 

Sir Oliv. If he knew who it was wanted to see 
him, perhaps he would not send such a message ? 

Trip. Yes, yes, sir ; he knows you are here — 
I did not forget little Premium : no, no, no. 

Sir Oliv. Very well ; and I pray, sir, what may 
be your name ? 

Trip. Trip, sir ; my name is Trip, at your service. 

Sir Oliv. Well, then, Mr. Trip, you have a plea- 
sant sort of place here, I guess ? 

Trip. Why, yes — here are three or four of us 
pass our time agreeably enough ; but then our 
wages are sometimes a little in arrear — and not 
very great either — but fifty pounds a year, and find 
our own bags and bouquets. 

Sir Oliv. Bags and bouquets ! halters and bas- 
tinadoes ! [Aside. 

Trip. And a propos, Moses — have you been able 
to get me that little bill discounted ? 

Sir Oliv. Wants to raise money too ! — mercy 
on me ! Has his distresses too, I warrant, like a 
lord, and affects creditors and duns. [Aside. 

Mos. 'Twas not to be done, indeed, Mr. Trip. 

Trip. Good lack, you surprise me ! My friend 



92 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 



Brush has indorsed it, and I thought when he 
put his name at the hack of a hill 'twas the same 
as cash. 

Mos. No, 'twouldn't do. 

Trip. A small sum — but twenty pounds. 
Hark'ee, Moses, do you think you couldn't get it 
me by way of annuity ? 

Sir Oliv. An annuity ! ha ! ha ! a footman raise 

money by way of annuity ! Well done, luxury, 

egad ! [Aside. 

Mos. Well, but you must insure your place. 

Trip. Oh, with all my heart ! I'll insure my 

place, and my life too, if you please. 

Sir Oliv. It's more than I would your neck. 

[Aside. 
Mos. But is there nothing you could deposit ? 
Trip. Why, nothing capital of my master's 
wardrobe has dropped lately ; but I could give you 
a mortgage on some of his winter clothes, with 
equity of redemption before November — or you 
shall have the reversion of the French velvet, or a 
post-obit on the blue and silver : — these, I should 
think, Moses, with a few pair of point ruffles, as a 
collateral security — hey, my little fellow ? 

Mos. Well, well. [Bell rings. 

Trip. Egad, I heard the bell ! I believe, gen- 
tlemen, I can now introduce you — Don't forget 
the annuity, little Moses ! — This way, gentlemen. 
— I'll insure my place, you know. 

Sir Oliv. [Aside.'] If the man be a shadow of 
the master, this is the temple of dissipation indeed ! 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE III. — Another Room in the same. 

Charlks Surface, Sir Harry Bumper, Careless, and 
Gentlemen, discovered drinking. 

Chas. Surf. 'Fore heaven, 'tis true ! — there's 
the great degeneracy of the age. Many of our ac- 
quaintance have taste, spirit, and politeness ; but, 
plague on't, they won't drink. 

Care. It is so indeed, Charles ! they give into 
all the substantia] luxuries of the table, and abstain 
from nothing but wine and wit. Oh, certainly 
society suffers by it intolerably ! for now, instead 
of the social spirit of raillery that used to mantle 
over a glass of bright burgundy, their conversation 
is become just like the Spa water they drink, which 
has all the pertness and flatulence of champagne, 
without the spirit or flavour. 

1 Gent. But what are they to do who love play 
better than wine ? 

Care. True : there's sir Harry diets himself for 
gaming, and is now under a hazard regimen. 

Chas. Surf. Then he'll have the worst of it. 
What ! you wouldn't train a horse for the course 
by keeping him from corn? For my part, egad, 
I am never so successful as when I am a little 
merry : let me throw on a bottle of champagne, and 
I never lose — at least I never feel my losses, which 
is exactly the same thing. 

2 Gent. Ay, that I believe. 

Chas. Surf. And then, what man can pretend 
to be a believer in love, who is an abjurer of wine ? 
Tis the test by which the lover knows his own 
heart. Fill a dozen bumpers to a dozen beauties, 
and she that floats atop is the maid that has be- 
witched you. 



Care. Now then, Charles, be honest, and give 
us your real favourite. 

Chas. Surf. Why, I have withheld her only in 
compassion to you. If I toast her, you must give 
a round of her peers, which is impossible — on 
earth. 

Care. Oh ! then we'll find some canonised ves- 
tals or heathen goddesses that will do, I warrant ! 

Chas. Surf. Here then, bumpers, you rogues ! 
bumpers ! Maria ! Maria ! — 

Sir Har. Maria who ? 

Chas. Surf. Oh, damn the surname ! — 'tis too 
formal to be registered in Love's calendar. — But 
now, sir Harry, beware, we must have beauty su- 
perlative. 

Care. Nay, never study, sir Harry : we'll stand 
to the toast, though your mistress should want an 
eye, and you know you have a song will excuse you. 

Sir Har. Egad, so I have ! and I'll give him 
the song instead of the lady. [Sings. 

Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen ; 

Here's to the widow of fifty ; 
Here's to the flaunting extravagant quean, 
And here's to the housewife that's thrifty. 
Chorus. Let the toast pass,— 
Drink to the lass, 
I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass. 

Here's to the charmer whose dimples we prize ; 

Now to the maid who has none, sir : 
Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes, 

And here's to the nymph with but one, sir. 
Chorus. Let the toast pass, &c. 

Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow ; 

Now to her that's as brown as a berry : 
Here's to the wife with a face full of woe, 

And now to the girl that is merry. 
Chorus. Let the toast pass, &c. 

For let 'em be clumsy, or let 'em be slim, 
Young or ancient, I care not a feather ; 

So fill a pint bumper quite up to the brim, 
And let us e'en toast them together. 

Chorus. Let the toast pass, &c. 

All. Bravo ! bravo ! 

Enter Trip, and whispers Charles Surface. 

Chas. Surf. Gentlemen, you must excuse me a 
little. — Careless, take £he chair, will you ? 

Care. Nay, prithee, Charles, what now ? This 
is one of your peerless beauties, I suppose, has 
dropped in by chance ? 

Chas. Surf. No, faith ! To tell you the truth, 
'tis a Jew and a broker, who are come by appoint- 
ment. 

Care. O damn it ! let's have the Jew in. 

1 Gent. Ay, and the broker too, by all means. 

2 Gent. Yes, yes, the Jew and the broker. 
Chas. Surf. Egad, with all my heart! — Trip, 

bid the gentlemen walk in. — [Exit Trip.] Though 
there's one of them a stranger,. I can tell you. 

Care. Charles, let us give them some generous 
burgundy, and perhaps they'll grow conscientious. 

Chas. Surf. Oh, hang 'em, no ! wine does but 
draw forth a man's natural qualities ; and to make 
them drink would only be to whet their knavery. 

Re-enter Trip, with Sir Oliver Surface and Moses. 

Chas. Surf. So, honest Moses, walk in — walk 
in, pray, Mr. Premium. — That's the gentleman's 
name, isn't it, Moses 



SCENE 111. 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 



93 



Mos. Yes, sir. 

Chas. Surf. Set chairs, Trip.— Sit down, Mr. 
Premium. — Glasses, Trip. — [Trip gives chairs 
and glasses, and exit.] Sit down, Moses. — Come, 
Mr. Premium, I'll give you a sentiment; here's 
Success to usury ! — Moses, fill the gentleman a 
bumper. 

Mos. Success to usury ! [Brinks. 

Care. Right, Moses — usury is prudence and 
industry, and deserves to succeed. 

Sir Oliv. Then here's — all the success it 
deserves ! {Brinks. 

Care. No, no, that won't do ! Mr. Premium, 
you have demurred at the toast, and must drink it 
in a pint bumper. 

1 Gent. A pint bumper, at least. 

Mos. O pray, sir, consider — Mr. Premium's a 
gentleman. 

Care. And therefore loves good wine. 

2 Gent. Give Moses a quart glass — this is mutiny, 
and a high contempt for the chair. 

Care. Here, now for't ! I'll see justice done, to 
the last drop of my bottle. 

Sir Oliv. Nay, pray, gentlemen — I did not 
expect this usage. 

Chas. Surf. No, hang it, you shan't ; Mr. Pre- 
mium's a stranger.. 

Sir Oliv. Odd ! I wish I was well out of their 
company. [Aside. 

Care- Plague on 'em then ! if they don't drink, 
we'll not sit down with them. — Come, Harry, the 
dice are in the next room. — Charles, you'll join us 
when you have finished your business with the 
gentlemen ? 

Chas. Surf. I will! I will ! — [Exeunt Sir Harry 
Bumper and Gentlemen ; Careless following.'] 
Careless ! 

Care. [Returning.] Well! 

Chas. Surf Perhaps I may want you. 

Care. Oh, you know I am always ready : word, 
note, or bond, 'tis all the same to me. [Exit. 

Mos. Sir, this is Mr. Premium, a gentleman of 
the strictest honour and secrecy ; and always per- 
forms what he undertakes. — Mr. Premium, this is — 

Chas. Surf. Psha ! have done. — Sir, my friend 
Moses is a very honest fellow, but a little slow at 
expression : he'll be an hour giving us our titles. 
Mr. Premium, the plain state of the matter is this : 
I am an extravagant young fellow who wants to 
borrow money ; you I take to be a prudent old 
fellow, who have got money to lend. I am block- 
head enough to give fifty per cent, sooner than not 
have it ; and you, I presume, are rogue enough to 
take a hundred if you can get it. Now, sir, you 
see we are acquainted at once, and may proceed to 
business without farther ceremony. 

Sir Oliv. Exceeding frank, upon my word. — I 
see, sir, you are not a man of many compliments. 

Chas. Surf. Oh, no, sir ! plain-dealing in busi- 
ness I always think best. 

Sir Oliv. Sir, I like you the better for it. — 
However, you are mistaken in one"*thing ; I have 
no money to lend, but I believe 1 could procure 
some of a friend ; but then he's an unconscionable 
dog. — Isn't he, Moses ? 

Mos. But you can't help that. 

Sir Oliv. And must sell stock to accommodate 
you. — Mustn't he, Moses ? 

Mos. Yes, indeed ! — You know I always speak 
the truth, and scorn to tell a lie ! 



Chas. Surf. Right. People that speak truth 
generally do. — But these are trifles, Mr. Premium. 
What ! I know money isn't to be bought without 
paying for't ! 

Sir Oliv. Well, but what security could you 
give ? You have no land, I suppose ? 

Chas. Surf. Not a mole-hill, nor a twig, but 
what's in the bough-pots out of the window ! 

Sir Olio. Nor any stock, I presume ? 

Chas. Surf. Nothing but live stock — and that's 
only a few pointers and ponies. But pray, Mr. 
Premium, are you acquainted at all with any of my 
connexions ? v 

Sir Oliv. Why, to say truth, I am. 

Chas. Surf. Then you must know that I have a 
devilish rich uncle in the East Indies, sir Oliver 
Surface, from whom I have the greatest expec- 
tations ? 

Sir Oliv. That you have a wealthy uncle I have 
heard ; but how your expectations will turn out, is 
more, I believe, than you can tell. 

Chas. Surf. O no ! — there can be no doubt. 
They tell me I'm a prodigious favourite, and that 
he talks of leaving me everything. 

Sir Oliv. Indeed ! this is the first I've heard 
of it. 

Chas. Surf Yes, yes, 'tis just so. — Moses knows 
'tis true ; don't you, Moses ? 

Mos. O yes ! I'll swear to't. 

Sir Oliv. Egad, they'll persuade me presently 
I'm at Bengal. [Aside. 

Chas. Surf. Now I propose, Mr. Premium, if 
it's agreeable to you, a post-obit on sir Oliver's 
life : though at the same time the old fellow has 
been so liberal to me, that I give you my word , I 
should be very sorry to hear that anything had hap- 
pened to him. 

Sir Oliv. Not more than I should, I assure you. 
But the bond you mention happens to be just the 
worst security you could offer me — for I might live 
to a hundred, and never see the principal. 

Chas. Surf. O yes, you would ! the moment sir 
Oliver dies, you know, you would come on me for 
the money. 

Sir Oliv. Then I believe I should be the most 
unwelcome dun you ever had in your life. 

Chas. Surf. What ! I suppose you're afraid that 
sir Oliver is too good a life ? 

Sir Oliv. No, indeed, I am not ; though I have 
heard he is as hale and healthy as any man of his 
years in Christendom. 

Chas. Surf. There again, now, you are misin- 
formed. No, no, the climate has hurt him consi- 
derably, poor uncle Oliver ! Yes, yes, he breaks 
apace, I'm told — and is so much altered lately that 
his nearest relations don't know him. 

Sir Oliv. No ! ha ! ha ! ha ! so much altered 
lately that his nearest relations don't know him ! 
ha ! ha ! ha ! egad — ha ! ha I ha ! 

Chas. Surf Ha ! ha ! — you're glad to hear that, 
little Premium ? 

Sir Oliv. No, no, I'm not. 

Chas. Surf Yes, yes, you are — ha ! ha ! ha ! — 
you know that mends your chance. 

Sir Oliv. But I'm told sir Oliver is coming 
over ; nay, some say he is actually arrived. 

Chas. Surf. Psha ! sure I must know better than 
you whether he's come or not. No, no, rely on't 
he's at this moment at Calcutta. — Isn't he, Moses ? 

Mos. O yes, certainly. 



94 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 



Sir Oliv. Very true, as you say, you must know 
better than I, though I have it from pretty good 
authority. — Haven't I, Moses ? 

Mos. Yes, most undoubted ! 

Sir Oliv. But, sir, as I understand you want a 
few hundreds immediately, is there nothing you 
could dispose of ? 

Chas. Surf. How do you mean ? 

Sir Oliv. For instance, now, I have heard that 
your father left behind him a great quantity of 
massy old plate. 

Chas. Surf. O Lud ! that's gone long ago. — 
Moses can tell you how better than I can. 

Sir Oliv. [Aside.} Good lack ! all the family 
race-cups and corporation-bowls ! — [Aloud.} Then 
it was also supposed that his library was one of the 
most valuable and compact — 

Chas. Surf. Yes, yes, so it was ; — vastly too 
much so for a private gentleman. For my part, I 
was always of a communicative disposition, so I 
thought it a shame to keep so much knowledge to 
myself. 

Sir Oliv. [Aside.] Mercy upon me ! learning 
that had run in the family like an heir-loom ! — 
[Aloud.] Pray, what are become of the books ? 

Chas. Surf. You must inquire of the auctioneer, 
master Premium, for I don't believe even Moses 
can direct you. 

Mos. I know nothing of books. 

Sir Oliv. So, so, nothing of the family property 
left, I suppose ? 

Chas. Surf. Not much, indeed ; unless you have 
a mind to the family-pictures. I have got a room 
full of ancestors above ; and if you have a taste for 
paintings, egad, you shall have 'em a bargain ! 

Sir Oliv. Hey ! what the devil ! sure, you 
wouldn't sell your forefathers, would you ? 

Chas. Surf. Every man of them, to the best 
bidder. 



Sir Oliv. What ! your great uncles and aunts ? 

Chas. Surf. Ay, and my great-grandfathers and 
grandmothers too. 

Sir Oliv. [Aside.] Now I give him up ! — 
[Aloud.] What the plague, have you no bowels 
for your own kindred ? Odd's life ! do you take 
me for Shylock in the play, that you would raise 
money of me on your own flesh and blood ? 

Chas. Surf. Nay, my little broker, don't be 
angry : what need you care, if you have your 
money's worth ? 

Sir Oliv. Well, I'll be the purchaser : I think 
I can dispose of the family canvas. — [Aside.] Oh, 
I'll never forgive him this ! never ! 

Re-enter Careless. 

Care. Come, Charles, what keeps you ? 

Chas. Surf. I can't come yet. — I'faith, we are 
going to have a sale above stairs ; here's little 
Premium will buy all my ancestors ! 

Care. Oh, burn your ancestors ! 

Chas. Surf No, he may do that afterwards, 
if he pleases. — Stay, Careless, we want you : 
egad, you shall be auctioneer — so come along with 
us. 

Care. Oh, have with you, if that's the case. — 
Handle a hammer as well as a dice-box ! 

Sir Oliv. Oh, the profligates ! [Aside. 

Chas. Surf. Come, Moses, you shall be appraiser, 
if we want one. — Gad's life, little Premium, you 
don't seem to like the business ? 

Sir Oliv. O yes, I do, vastly ! — Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
yes, yes, I think it a rare joke to sell one's 
family by auction — ha! ha! — [Aside.] Oh, the 
prodigal ! 

Chas. Surf. To be sure ! when a man wants 
money, where the plague should he get assistance, 
if he can't make free with his own relations ? 

[Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 



SCENE I. — A Picture Room in Charles 
Surface's House. 

Enter Charles Surface, Sir Oliver Surface, Moses, and 

Careless. 

Chas. Surf. Walk in, gentlemen, pray walk in ; 
— here they are, the family of the Surfaces, up to 
the Conquest. 

Sir Oliv. And, in my opinion, a goodly col- 
lection. 

Chas. Surf. Ay, ay, these are done in the true 
spirit of portrait painting ; — no volontiere grace 
and expression. Not like the works of your modern 
Raphaels, who give you the strongest resemblance, 
yet contrives to make your portrait independent of 
you ; so that you may sink the original and not 
hurt the picture. No, no ; the merit of these is 
the inveterate likeness — all stiff and awkward as 
the originals, and like nothing in human nature 
besides. 

Sir Oliv. Ah ! we shall never see such figures 
of men again. 

Chas. Surf. I hope not. — Well, you see, master 
Premium, what a domestic character I am ; here I 



sit of an evening surrounded by my family. — But, 
come, get to your pulpit, Mr. Auctioneer ; here's 
an old gouty chair of my father's will answer the 
purpose. 

Care. Ay, ay, this will do. — But, Charles, I 
haven't a hammer ; and what's an auctioneer with- 
out his hammer ? 

Chas. Surf. Egad, that's true. — Whatparchment 
have we here ? — Oh, our genealogy in full. — Here, 
Careless ; you shall have no common bit of maho- 
gany, here's the family tree for you, you rogue ! 
This shall be your hammer, and now you may 
knock down my ancestors with their own pedigree. 

Sir Oliv. What an unnatural rogue ! — an ex 
post facto parricide ! [Aside. 

Care. Yes, yes, here's a bit of your generation 
indeed ; — faith, Charles, this is the most convenient 
thing you could have found for the business, for 
'twill serve not only as a hammer, but a catalogue 
into the bargain. — Come, begin — A-going, a-going, 
a-going ! 

Chas. Surf. Bravo, Careless! — Well, here's my 
great-uncle, sir Richard Raveline, a marvellous 
good general in his day, I assure you. He served 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 



95 



in all the duke of Marlborough's wars, and got 
that cut over his eye at the battle of Malplaquet. 
What say you, Mr. Premium? Look at him — 
there's a hero ! not cut out of his feathers, as 
your modern clipped captains are, but enveloped 
in wig and regimentals, as a general should be. — 
What do you bid ? 

Mos. Mr. Premium would have you speak. 

Chas. Surf. Why, then, he shall have him for 
ten pounds, and I'm sure that's not dear for a 
staff- officer. 

Sir Oliv. [Aside.] Heaven deliver me ! his 
famous uncle Richard for ten pounds ! — [Aloud.] 
Well, sir, I take him at that. 

Chas. Surf. Careless, knock down my uncle 
Richard. — Here, now, is a maiden sister of his, my 
great-aunt Deborah, done by Kneller, thought to 
be in his best manner, and a very formidable like- 
ness. There she is, you see, a shepherdess feeding 
her flock. You shall have her for five pounds ten 
— the sheep are worth the money. 

Sir Oliv. [Aside.] Ah ! poor Deborah ! a 
woman who set such a value on herself ! — [Aloud.] 
Five pounds ten — she's mine. 

Chas. Surf. Knock down my aunt Deborah ! — 
Here, now, are two that were a sort of cousins of 
theirs. — You see, Moses, these pictures were done 
some time ago, when beaux wore wigs, and the 
ladies their own hair. 

Sir Oliv. Yes, truly, head-dresses appear to 
have been a little lower in those days. 

Chas. Surf. Well, take that couple for the same. 

Mos. 'Tis good bargain. 

Chas. Surf. Careless I — This, now, is a grand- 
father of my mother's, a learned judge, well known 
on the western circuit. — What do you rate him at, 
Moses ? 

Mos. Four guineas. 

Chas. Surf. Four guineas ! Gad's life, you 
don't bid me the price of his wig — Mr. Premium, 
you have more respect for the woolsack ; do let us 
knock his lordship down at fifteen. 

Sir Oliv. By all means. 

Care. Gone ! 

Chas. Surf. And there are two brothers of his, 
William and Walter Blunt, esquires, both members 
of parliament, and noted speakers, and what's very 
extraordinary, I believe, this is the first time they 
were ever bought or sold. 

Sir Oliv. That is very extraordinary, indeed ! 
I'll take them at your own price, for the honour of 
parliament. 

Care. Well said, little Premium ! I'll knock 
them down at forty. 

Chas. Surf. Here's a jolly fellow — I don't know 
what relation, but he was mayor of Manchester : 
take him at eight pounds. 

Sir Oliv. No, no ; six will do for the mayor. 

Chas. Surf. Come, make it guineas, and I'll 
tbrow you the two aldermen there into the bar- 
gain. 

Sir Oliv. They're mine. 

Chas. Surf. Careless, knock down the mayor 
and aldermen. — But, plague on't ! we shall be all 
day retailing in tbis manner ; do let us deal whole- 
sale : what say you, little Premium ? Give us three 
hundred pounds for the rest of the family in the 
lump. 

Care. Ay, ay, that will be the best way. 

Sir Oliv. Well, well, anything to accommodate 



you ; — they are mine. But there is one portrait 
which you have always passed over. 

Care. What, that ill-looking little fellow over the 
settee ? 

Sir Oliv. Yes, sir, I mean that; though I don't 
think him so ill-looking a little fellow, by any 
means. 

Chas. Surf. What, that ?— Oh ! that's my uncle 
Oliver ; 'twas done before he went to India. 

Care. Your uncle Oliver! Gad, then you'll 
never be friends, Charles. That, now, to me, is 
as stern a looking rogue as ever I saw ; an unfor- 
giving eye, and a damned disinheriting countenance ! 
an inveterate knave, depend on't. — Don't you think 
so, little Premium ? 

Sir Oliv. Upon my soul, sir, I do not ; I think it 
is as honest a looking face as any in the room, dead 
or alive. — But I suppose uncle Oliver goes with 
the rest of the lumber ? 

Chas. Surf. No, hang it ! I'll not part with 
poor Noll. The old fellow has been very good to 
me, and, egad, I'll keep his picture while I've a 
room to put it in. 

Sir Oliv. [Aside.] The rogue's my nephew 
after all ! — [Aloud.] But, sir, I have somehow 
taken a fancy to that picture. 

Chas. Surf. I'm sorry fort, for you certainly 
will not have it. — Oons, haven't you got enough 
of them ? 

Sir Oliv. [Aside.] I forgive him everything! — 
[Aloud.] But, sir, when I take a whim in my head 
I don't value money. I'll give you as much for 
that as for all the rest. 

Chas. Surf. Don't tease me, master broker ; I 
tell you I'll not part with it, and there's an end of 
it. 

Sir Oliv. [Aside.] How like his father the dog 
is ! — [Aloud.] Well, well, I have done. — [Aside.] 
I did not perceive it before, but I think I never 

saw such a striking resemblance [Aloud.] Here 

is a draught for your sum. , 

Chas. Surf. Why, 'tis for eight hundred pounds ! 

Sir Oliv. You will not let sir Oliver go ? 

Chas. Surf. Zounds ! no ! I tell you, once more. 

Sir Oliv. Then never mind the difference, we'll 

balance that another time But give me your 

hand on the bargain ; you are an honest fellow, 
Charles — I beg pardon, sir, for being so free. — 
Come, Moses. 

Chas. Surf. Egad, this is a whimsical old fel- 
low ! — But hark'ee, Premium, you'll prepare 
lodgings for these gentlemen. 

Sir Oliv. Yes, yes, I'll send for them in a day or 
two. 

Chas. Surf. But, hold ; do now send a genteel 
conveyance for them, for, I assure you, they were 
most of them used to ride in their own carriages. 

Sir Oliv. I will, I will — for all but Oliver. 

Chas. Surf. Ay, all but the little nabob. 

Sir Oliv. You're fixed on that ? 

Chas. Surf. Peremptorily. 

Sir Oliv. [Aside.] A dear extravagant rogue ! — 
[Aloud.] Good day ! — Come, Moses. — [Aside.] 
Let me hear now who calls him profligate ! 

[Exit with Moses. 

Care. Why, this is the oddest genius of the sort 
I ever saw ! 

Chas. Surf. Egad, he's the prince of brokers, I 
think. I wonder how Moses got acquainted with 
so honest a fellow, — Ha ! here's Rowley. — Do, 



96 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 



Careless, say I'll join the company in a few mo- 
ments. 

Care. I will — but don't let that old blockhead 
persuade you to squander any of that money on old 
musty debts, or any such nonsense ; for tradesmen, 
Charles, are the most exorbitant fellows. 

Chas. Surf. Very true, and paying them is only 
encouraging them. 

Care. Nothing else. 

Chas. Surf. Ay, ay, never fear. — {Exit Care- 
less.] So ! this was an odd old fellow, indeed. — 
Let me see — two-thirds of this is mine by 
right, five hundred and thirty odd pounds. 'Fore 
Heaven ! I find one's ancestors are more valuable 
relations than I took them for ! — Ladies and gentle- 
men, your most obedient and very grateful servant. 
[Bows ceremoniously to the pictures. 

Enter Rowley. 

Ha ! old Rowley ! egad, you are just come in time 
to take leave of your old acquaintance. 

Row. Yes, I heard they were a-going. But I 
wonder you can have such spirits under so many 
distresses. 

Chas. Surf. Why, there's the point ! my dis- 
tresses are so many, that I can't afford to part with 
my spirits ; but I shall be rich and splenetic, all in 
good time. However, I suppose you are surprised 
that I am not more sorrowful at parting with so 
many near relations ; to be sure 'tis very affecting : 
but you see they never move a muscle, so why 
should I ? 

Row. There's no making you serious a moment. 

Chas. Surf. Yes, faith, I am so now. Here, 
my honest Rowley, here, get me this changed 
directly, and take a hundred pounds of it imme- 
diately to old Stanley. 

Row. A hundred pounds ! Consider only — 

Chas, Surf. Gad's life, don't talk about it ! 
poor Stanley's wants are pressing, and, if you 
don't make haste, we shall have some one call 
that has a better right to the money. 

Row. Ah ! there's the point ! I never will 
cease dunning you with the old proverb — 

Chas. Surf. Be just before you're generous. 
— Why, so I would if I could ; but Justice is an 
old lame, hobbling beldame, and I can't get her to 
keep pace with Generosity for the soul of me. 

Row. Yet, Charles, believe me, one hour's 
reflection — . 

Chas. Surf. Ay, ay, it's all very true ; but, 
hark'ee, Rowley, while I have, by Heaven I'll 
give ; so, damn your economy ! and now for 
hazard. [Exeunt. 



SCENE II. — Another room in the same. 

Enter Sir Oliver Surface and Moses. 

Mos. Well, sir, I think, as sir Peter said, you 
have seen Mr. Charles in high glory ; 'tis great 
pity he's so extravagant. 

Sir Oliv. True, but he would not sell my picture. 

Mos. And loves wine and women so much. 

Sir Oliv. But he would not sell my picture. 

Mos. And games so deep. 

Sir Oliv. But he would not sell my picture. — 
Oh, here's Rowley. 



Enter Rowley. 

Rovu So, sir Oliver, I find you have made a 
purchase — 

Sir Oliv. Yes, yes, our young rake has parted 
with his ancestors like old tapestry. 

Row. And here has he commissioned me to 
redeliver you part of the purchase money — I mean, 
though in your necessitous character of old 
Stanley. 

Mos. Ah ! there is the pity of all ; he is so 
damned charitable. 

Row. And I left a hosier and two tailors in the 
hall, who, I'm sure, won't be paid, and this hun- 
dred would satisfy them. 

Sir Oliv. Well, well, I'll pay his debts, and his 
benevolence too. But now I am no more a broker, 
and you shall introduce me to the elder brother as 
old Stanley. 

Row. Not yet a while ; sir Peter, I know, means 
to call there about this time. 



Trip. Oh, gentlemen, I beg pardon for not 
showing you out ; this way — Moses, a word. 

[Exit with Moses. 

Sir Oliv. There's a fellow for you ! — Would you 
believe it, that puppy intercepted the Jew on our 
coming, and wanted to raise money before he got 
to his master ! 

Row. Indeed ! 

Sir Oliv. Yes, they are now planning an annuity 
business. — Ah ! master Rowley, in my days ser- 
vants were content with the follies of their masters, 
when they were worn a little threadbare ; but now, 
they have their vices, like their birthday clothes, 
with the gloss on. [Exeunt. 



SCENE III. — A Library in Joseph Surface's 
House. 

Enter Joseph Surface and Servant. 

Jos. Surf. No letter from lady Teazle ? 

Ser. No, sir. 

Jos. Surf. [Aside.] I am surprised she has not 
sent, if she is prevented from coming. Sir Peter 
certainly does not suspect me. Yet I wish I may 
not lose the heiress, through the scrape I have 
drawn myself into with the wife ; however, 
Charles's imprudence and bad character are great 
points in my favour. [Knocking without. 

Ser. Sir, I believe that must be lady Teazle. 

Jos. Surf. Hold ! — See whether it is or not 
before you go to the door : I have a particular 
message for you if it should be my brother. 

Ser. 'Tis her ladyship, sir; she always leaves 
her chair at the milliner's in the next street. 

Jos. Surf. Stay, stay ; draw that screen before 
the window — that will do ; — my opposite neigh- 
bour is a maiden lady of so anxious a temper. — 
[Servant draws the screen, and exit.~\ I have a 
difficult hand to play in this affair. Lady Teazle 
has lately suspected my views on Maria ; but she 
must by no means be let into that secret, — at least, 
till I have her more in my power. 

Enter Lady Teazle. 
Lady Teaz. What, sentiment in soliloquy now ? 
Have you been very impatient ? O Lud ! don't 



SCENE III. 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 



97 



pretend to look grave. I vow I couldn't come 
before. 

Jos. Surf. O madam, punctuality is a species 
of constancy, a very unfashionable quality in a 
lady. 

Lady Teaz. Upon my word, you ought to pity 
me. Do you know sir Peter is grown so ill- 
natured to me of late, and so jealous of Charles 
too — that's the best of the story, isn't it ? 

Jos. Surf. I am glad my scandalous friends 
keep that up. {.Aside. 

Lady Teaz. I am sure I wish he would let 
Maria marry him, and then perhaps he would be 
convinced ; don't you, Mr. Surface ? 

Jos. Surf. [Aside.] Indeed I do not. — [Aloud.~\ 
Oh, certainly I do ! for then my dear lady Teazle 
would also be convinced how wrong her suspicions 
were of my having any design on the silly girl. 

Lady Teaz. Well, well, I'm inclined to believe 
you. But isn't it provoking, to have the most 
ill-natured things said of one ? And there's my 
friend lady Sneerwell has circulated I don't know 
how many scandalous tales of me, and all without 
any foundation too ; that's what vexes me. 

Jos. Surf. Ay, madam, to be sure, that is the 
provoking circumstance — without foundation ; yes, 
yes, there's the mortification, indeed ; for when a 
scandalous story is believed against one, there 
certainly is no comfort like the consciousness of 
having deserved it. 

Lady Teaz. No, to be sure, then I'd forgive 
their malice ; but to attack me, who am really so 
innocent, and who never say an ill-natured thing 
of anybody — that is, of any friend ; and then sir 
Peter too, to have him so peevish, and so sus- 
picious, when I know the integrity of my own 
heart — indeed 'tis monstrous ! 

Jos. Surf. But, my dear lady Teazle, 'tis your 
own fault if you suffer it. When a husband 
entertains a groundless suspicion of his wife, and 
withdraws his confidence from her, the original 
compact is broken, and she owes it to the honour 
of her sex to outwit him. 

Lady Teaz. Indeed ! — So, that if he suspects 
me without cause, it follows, that the best way of 
curing his jealousy is to give him reason for't ? 

Jos. Surf. Undoubtedly — for your husband 
should never be deceived in you : and in that case 
it becomes you to be frail in compliment to his 
discernment. 

Lady Teaz. To be sure, what you say is very 
reasonable, and when the consciousness of my 
innocence — 

Jos. Surf. Ah, my dear madam, there is the 
great mistake ! 'tis this very conscious innocence that 
is of the greatest prejudice to you. What is it 
makes you negligent of forms, and careless of the 
world's opinion ? why, the consciousness of your 
own innocence. What makes you thoughtless in 
your conduct, and apt to run into a thousand little 
imprudences ? why, the consciousness of your own 
innocence. What makes you impatient of sir 
Peter's temper, and outrageous at his suspicions ? 
why, the consciousness of your innocence. 

Lady Teaz. 'Tis very true ! 

Jos. Surf. Now, my dear lady Teazle, if you 
would but once make a trifling faux pas, you can't 
conceive how cautious you would grow, and how 
ready to humour and agree with your husband. 

Lady Teaz. Do you think so ? 



Jos. Surf. Oh ! I am sure on't ; and then you 
would find all scandal would cease at once, for — in 
short, your character at present is like a person in 
a plethora, absolutely dying from too much health. 

Lady Teaz. So, so ; then I perceive your pre- 
scription is, that I must sin in my own defence, 
and part with my virtue to secure my reputation ? 

Jos. Surf. Exactly so, upon my credit, ma'am. 

Lady Teaz. Well, certainly this is the oddest 
doctrine, and the newest receipt for avoiding 
calumny ! 

Jos. Surf. An infallible one, believe me. Pru- 
dence, like experience, must be paid for. 

Lady Teaz. Why, if my understanding were 
once convinced — 

Jos. Surf. Oh, certainly, madam, your under- 
standing should be convinced. — Yes, yes — Heaven 
forbid I should persuade you to do anything you 
thought wrong. No, no, I have too much honour 
to desire it. 

Lady Teaz. Don't you think we may as well 
leave honour out of the question ? 

Jos. Surf. Ah ! the ill effects of your country 
education, I see, still remain with you. 

Lady Teaz. I doubt they do indeed ; and I will 
fairly own to you, that if I could be persuaded to 
do wrong, it would be by sir Peter's ill usage sooner 
than your honourable logic, after all. 

Jos. Surf. Then, by this hand, which he is 
unworthy of — {Taking her hand. 

Re-enter Servant. 

'Sdeath, you blockhead — what do you want ? 

Ser. I beg your pardon, sir, but I thought you 
would not choose sir Peter to come up without 
announcing him. 

Jos. Surf. Sir Peter ! — Oons — the devil ! 

Lady Teaz. Sir Peter ! O Lud ! I'm ruined ! 
I'm ruined ! 

Ser. Sir, 'twasn't I let him in. 

Lady Teaz. Oh ! I'm quite undone ! What 
will become of me ? Now, Mr. Logic — Oh ! he's 
on the stairs — I '11 get behind here — and if ever I'm 
SO imprudent again — [Goes behind the screen. 

Jos. Surf. Give me that book. 

[Sits down. Servant pretends to adjust his hair. 

Enter Sir Peter Teazle. 

Sir Pet. Ay, ever improving himself — Mr. Sur- 
face, Mr. Surface — 

Jos. Surf. Oh 1 my dear sir Peter, I beg your 
pardon. — [Gaping, throws away the book.] I have 
been dozing over a stupid book. Well, I am much 
obliged to you for this call. You haven't been 
here, I believe, since I fitted up this room. Books, 
you know, are the only things in which I am a 
coxcomb. 

Sir Pet. 'Tis very neat indeed. Well, well, that's 
proper ; and you can make e^en your screen a 
source of knowledge — hung, I perceive, with maps. 

Jos. Surf. O yes, I find great use in that screen. I 

Sir Pet. I dare say you must, certainly, when 
you want to find anything in a hurry. 

Jos. Surf. Ay, or to hide anything in a hurry 
either. [Aside. 

Sir Pet. Well, I have a little private business — 

Jos. Surf. You need not stay. [To Servant. 

Ser. No, sir. [Exit. 

Jos. Surf. Here's a chair, sir Peter — I beg — 

Sir Pet. Well, now we are alone, there is asub- 
H 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 



ACT IV. 



ject, ray dear friend, on which I wish to unburden 
my mind to you — a point of the greatest moment 
to my peace ; in short, my dear friend, lady 
Teazle's conduct of late has made me extremely 
unhappy. 

Jos. Surf. Indeed ! I am very sorry to hear it. 

Sir Pet. Ay, 'tis too plain she has not the least 
regard for me ; but, what's worse, I have pretty 
good authority to suppose she has formed an 
attachment to another. 

Jos. Surf. Indeed ! you astonish me ! 

Sir Pet. Yes ! and, between ourselves, I think 
I've discovered the person. 

Jos. Surf. How ! you alarm me exceedingly. 

Sir Pet. Ay, my dear friend, I knew you would 
sympathise with me ! 

Jos. Surf. Yes, believe me, sir Peter, such a 
discovery would hurt me just as much as it would 
you. 

Sir Pet. I am convinced of it. Ah ! it is a 
happiness to have a friend whom we can trust 
even with one's family secrets. But have you no 
guess who I mean ? 

Jos. Surf. I haven't the most distant idea. It 
can't be sir Benjamin Backbite ! 

Sir Pet. Oh no ! What say you to Charles ? 

Jos. Surf. My brother ! impossible ! 

Sir Pet. Oh ! my dear friend, the goodness of 
your own heart misleads you. You judge of 
others by yourself. 

Jos. Surf. Certainly, sir Peter, the heart that 
is conscious of its own integrity is ever slow to 
credit another's treachery. 

Sir Pet. True — but your brother has no senti- 
ment — you never hear him talk so. 

Jos. Surf. Yet, I can't but think lady Teazle 
herself has too much principle. 

Sir Pet. Ay, — but what is principle against the 
flattery of a handsome, lively young fellow ? 

Jos. Surf. That's very true. 

Sir Pet. And there's, you know, the difference 
of our ages makes it very improbable that she 
should have any very great affection for me ; and 
if she wer,e to be frail, and I were to make it pub- 
lic, why the town would only laugh at me, the 
foolish old bachelor, who had married a girl. 

Jos. Surf. That's true, to be sure — they would 
laugh. 

Sir Pet. Laugh ! ay, and make ballads, and 
paragraphs, and the devil knows what of me. 

Jos. Surf. No, you must never make it public. 

Sir Pet. But then again — that the nephew of 
my old friend, sir Oliver, should be the person to 
attempt such a wrong, hurts me more nearly. 

Jos. Surf. Ay, there's the point. When ingra- 
titude barbs the dart of injury, the wound has 
double danger in it. 

Sir Pet. Ay — I, that was, in a manner, left his 
guardian ; in whose house he had been so often 
entertained ; who never in my life denied him — my 
advice ! 

Jos. Surf. Oh, 'tis not to be credited ! There 
may be a man capable of such baseness, to be sure ; 
but, for my part, till you can give me positive 
proofs, I cannot but doubt it. However, if it 
should be proved on him, he is no longer a brother 
of mine — I disclaim kindred with him : for the 
man who can break the laws of hospitality, and 
tempt the wife of his friend, deserves to be 
branded as the pest of society. 



Sir Pet. What a difference there is between 
you ! What noble sentiments ! 

Jos. Surf. Yet, I cannot suspect lady Teazle's 
honour. 

Sir Pet. I am sure I wish to think well of her, 
and to remove all ground of quarrel between us. 
She has lately reproached me more than once with 
having made no settlement on her ; and, in oui 
last quarrel, she almost hinted that she should not 
break her heart if I was dead. Now, as we seem 
to differ in our ideas of expense, I have resolved 
she shall have her own way, and be her own mis- 
tress in that respect for the future ; and if I were 
to die, she will find I have not been inattentive to 
her interest while living. Here, my friend, are the 
drafts of two deeds, which I wish to have your 
opinion on. By one, she will enjoy eight hundred 
a year independent while I live ; and, by the other, 
the bulk of my fortune at my death. 

Jos. Surf. This conduct, sir Peter, is indeed 
truly generous. — [Aside.] I wish it may not cor- 
rupt my pupil. 

Sir Pet. Yes, I am determined she shall have 
no cause to complain, though I would not have 
her acquainted with the latter instance of my affec- 
tion yet awhile. 

Jos. Surf. Nor I, if I could help it. [Aside. 

Sir Pet. And now, my dear friend, if you please, 
we will talk over the situation of your affairs with 
Maria. 

Jos. Surf. [Softly.'] O no, sir Peter ; another 
time, if you please. 

Sir Pet. I am sensibly chagrined at the little 
progress you seem to make in her affections. 

Jos. Surf. [Softly. 1 I beg you will not mention 
it. What are my disappointments when your 
happiness is in debate ! — [Aside."] 'Sdeath, I shall 
be ruined every way ! 

Sir Pet. And though you are so averse to my 
acquainting lady Teazle with your passion for 
Maria, I'm sure she's not your enemy in the 
affair. 

Jos. Surf. Pray, sir Peter, now, oblige me. I 
am really too much affected by the subject we have 
been speaking of, to bestow a thought on my own 
concerns. The man who is entrusted with his 
friend's distresses can never — 

Re-enter Servant. 
Well, sir? 

Ser. Your brother, sir, is speaking to a gentle- 
man in the street, and says he knows you are 
within. 

Jos. Surf. 'Sdeath, blockhead, I'm not within 
— I'm out for the day. 

Sir Pet. Stay — hold — a thought has struck me : 
— you shall be at home. 

Jos. Surf. Well, well, let him up. — [Exit Ser- 
vant.] He'll interrupt sir Peter, however. [Aside. 

Sir Pet. Now, my good friend, oblige me, I 
intreat you. Before Charles comes, let me con- 
ceal myself somewhere, then do you tax him on 
the point we have been talking, and his answer 
may satisfy me at once. 

Jos. Surf. O fy, sir Peter ! would you have me 
join in so mean a trick ? — to trepan my brother 
too? 

Sir Pet. Nay, you tell me you are sure he is 
innocent : if so, you do him the greatest service by 
giving him an opportunity to clear himself, and 



SCENE III. 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 



90 



you will set my heart at rest. Come, you shall not 
refuse me : here, behind the screen will be — Hey ! 
what the devil ! there seems to be one listener 
there already — I'll swear I saw a petticoat ! 

Jos. Surf. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Well, this is ridi- 
culous enough. I'll tell you, sir Peter, though I 
hold a man of intrigue to be a most despicable 
character, yet, you know, it does not follow that 
one is to be an absolute Joseph either ! Hark'ee, 
'tis a little French milliner, a silly rogue that 
plagues me ; and having some character to lose, on 
your coming, sir, she ran behind the screen. 

Sir Pet. Ah ! you rogue ! But, egad, she has 
overheard all I have been saying of my wife. 

Jos. Surf. Oh, 'twill never go any farther, you 
may depend upon it ! 

Sir Pet. No ! then, faith, let her hear it out, — 
Here's a closet will do as well. 

Jos. Surf. Well, go in there. 

Sir Pet. Sly rogue ! sly rogue ! [.Goes into the closet. 

Jos. Surf. A narrow escape, indeed ! and a 
curious situation I'm in, to part man and wife in 
this manner. 

Lady Teaz. [Peeping.'] Couldn't I steal off? 

Jos. Surf. Keep close, my angel ! 

Sir Pet. [Peeping. - ] Joseph, tax him home. 

Jos. Surf. Back, my dear friend 1 

Lady Teaz. [Peeping.] Couldn't you lock sir 
Peter in ? 

Jos. Surf. Be still, my life ! 

Sir Pet. [Peeping.] You're sure the little 
milliner won't blab ? 

Jos. Surf. In, in, my good sir Peter ! — 'Fore 
Gad, I wish I had a key to the door. 

Enter Charles Surface. 

Chas. Surf. Holla ! brother, what has been the 
matter? Your fellow would not let me up at 
first. What ! have you had a Jew or a wench with 
you ? 

Jos. Surf. Neither, brother, I assure you. 

Chas. Surf. But what has made sir Peter steal 
off ? I thought he had been with you. 

Jos. Surf. He was, brother ; but hearing you 
were coming, he did not choose to stay. 

Chas. Surf. What ! was the old gentleman 
afraid I wanted to borrow money of him ? 

Jos. Surf. No, sir : but I am sorry to find, 
Charles, you have lately given that worthy man 
grounds for great uneasiness. 

Chas. Surf. Yes, they tell me I do that to a 
great many worthy men. — But how so, pray ? 

Jos. Surf. To be plain with you, brother, he 
thinks you are endeavouring to gain lady Teazle's 
affections from him. 

Chas. Surf. Who, I ? O Lud ! not I, upon my 
word. — Ha! ha! ha! ha! so the old fellow has 
found out that he has got a young wife, has he ? — 
or, what is worse, lady Teazle has found out she 
has an old husband ? 

Jos. Surf. This is no subject to jest on, bro- 
ther. He who can laugh — 

Chas. Surf. True, true, as you were going to say 
— then, seriously, I never had the least idea of 
what you charge me with, upon my honour. 

Jos. Surf. Well, it will give sir Peter great 
satisfaction to hear this. [Raising his voice. 

Chas. Surf. To be sure, I once thought the 
lady seemed to have taken a fancy to me ; but, 
upon my soul, I never gave her the least encou- 



ragement. — Besides, you know my attachment to 
Maria. — 

Jos. Surf. But sure, brother, even if lady Tea- 
zle had betrayed the fondest partiality for you — 

Chas. Surf. Why, look'ee, Joseph, I hope I 
shall never deliberately do a dishonourable action ; 
but if a pretty woman was purposely to throw her- 
self in my way — and that pretty woman married to 
a man old enough to be her father — 

Jos. Surf. Well ! 

Chas. Surf. Why, I believe I should be obliged 
to borrow a little of your morality, that's all. 
But, brother, do you know now that you surprise 
me exceedingly, by naming me with lady Teazle ; 
for, 'faith, I always understood you were her 
favourite. 

Jos. Surf. Oh, for shame, Charles ! This retort 
is foolish. 

Chas. Surf. Nay, I swear I have seen you ex- 
change such significant glances — 

Jos. Surf. Nay, nay, sir, this is no jest. 

Chas. Surf. Egad, I'm serious ! Don't you 
remember one day when I called here — 

Jos. Surf. Nay, prithee, Charles — 

Chas. Surf. And found you together — 

Jos. Surf. Zounds, sir ! I insist — 

Chas. Surf. And another time when your servant — ■ 

Jos. Surf. Brother, brother, a word with you ! 
— [Aside.] Gad, I must stop him. 

Chas. Surf. Informed, I say, that — 

Jos. Surf. Hush ! I beg your pardon, but sir 
Peter has overheard all we have been saying. I 
knew you would clear yourself, or I should not have 
consented. 

Chas. Surf. How, sir Peter ! where is he ? 

Jos. Surf. Softly, there ! [Points to the closet. 

Chas. Surf. Oh, 'fore Heaven, I'll have him out. 
— Sir Peter, come forth ! 

Jos. Surf. No, no — 

Chas. Surf. I say, sir Peter, come into court. — 
[Pulls in Sir Peter.] What ! my old guardian ! 
— What ! turn inquisitor, and take evidence incog. ? 

Sir Pet. Give me your hand, Charles — I believe 
I have suspected you wrongfully ; but you mustn't 
be angry with Joseph — 'twas my plan ! 

Chas. Surf. Indeed ! 

Sir Pet. But I acquit you. I promise you I 
don't think near so ill of you as I did : what I 
have heard has given me great satisfaction. 

Chas. Surf. Egad then, 'twas lucky you didn't 
hear any more. — Wasn't it, Joseph ? 

Sir Pet Ah ! you would have retorted on him. 

Chas. Surf. Ay, ay, that was a joke. 

Sir Pet. Yes, yes, I know his honour too well. 

Chas. Surf. But you might as well have suspected 
him as me in this matter, for all that. — Mightn't 
he, Joseph ? 

Sir Pet. Well, well, I believe you. 

Jos. Surf. Would they were both well out of the 
room ! [Aside. 

Re-enter Servant, and whispers Joseph Surface. 

Sir Pet. And in future, perhaps we may not be 
such strangers. 

Jos. Surf. Gentlemen, I beg pardon — I must 
wait on you down stairs : here is a person come on 
particular business. [Exit Servant. 

Chas. Surf. Well, you can see him in another 
room. Sir Peter and I have not met a long time, 
and I have something to say to him. 



100 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 



ACT IV. 



Jos. Surf. [Aside.'] They must not be left 
together. — [Aloud.] I'll send this man away, and 
return directly. — [Aside to Sir Peter.] Sir Peter, 
not a word of the French milliner. 

Sir Pet. [Aside to Joseph Surface.] I! not 
for the world ! — [Exit Joseph Surface.] Ah ! 
Charles, if you associated more with your brother, 
one might indeed hope for your reformation. He 
is a man of sentiment. — Well, there is nothing in 
the world so noble as a man of sentiment ! 

Chas. Surf. Psha ! he is too moral by half ; and 
so apprehensive of his good name, as he calls it, 
that I suppose he would as soon let a priest into 
his house as a girl. 

Sir Pet. No, no, — come, come, — you wrong 
him. — No, no ! Joseph is no rake, but he is no such 
saint either in that respect. — [Aside.] I have a 
great mind to tell him — we should have a laugh at 
Joseph. 

Chas. Surf. Oh, hang him ! he's a very an- 
chorite, a young hermit ! 

Sir Pet. Hark'ee, you must not abuse him : he 
may chance to hear of it again, I promise you. 

Chas. Surf. Why, you won't tell him ? 

Sir Pet. No — but — this way. — [Aside.] Egad, 
I'll tell him. — [Aloud.] Hark'ee — have you a 
mind to have a good laugh at Joseph ? 

Chas. Surf. I should like it of all things. 

Sir Pet. Then i'faith, we will ! I'll be quit with 
him for discovering me. — He had a girl with him 
when I called. 

Chas. Surf. What ! Joseph ? you jest. 

Sir Pet. Hush ! — a little French milliner — and 
the best of the jest is — she's in the room now. 

Chas. Surf. The devil she is ! 

Sir Pet. Hush ! I tell you. [.Points. 

Chas. Surf. Behind the screen ! 'Slife, let's 
unveil her ! 

Sir Pet, No, no, he's coming : — you shan't, 
indeed ! 

Chas. Surf. Oh, egad, we'll have a peep at the 
little milliner ! 

Sir Pet. Not for the world ! — Joseph will never 
forgive me. . 

Chas. Surf. I'll stand by you. 

Sir Pet. Odds, here he is ! 

[Charles Surface throws down the screen. 

Re-enter Joseph Surface. 

Chas. Surf. Lady Teazle, by all that's won- 
derful ! 

Sir Pet. Lady Teazle, by all that's damnable ! 

Chas. Surf. Sir Peter, this is one of the smartest 
French milliners I ever saw. Egad, you seem all 
to have been diverting yourselves here at hide and 
seek, and I don't see who is out of the secret. — 
Shall I beg your ladyship to inform me ? Not a 
word ! — Brother, will you be pleased to explain 
this matter ? What ! is Morality dumb too ? — Sir 
Peter, though I found you in the dark, perhaps 
you are not so now ! All mute ! — Well, though I 
can make nothing of the affair, I suppose you per- 
fectly understand one another ; so I'll leave you to 
yourselves. — [Going.] Brother, I'm sorry to find 



you have given that worthy man cause for so much 
uneasiness. — Sir Peter ! there's nothing in the 
world so noble as a man of sentiment ! [Exit. 

Jos. Surf. Sir Peter — notwithstanding — I con- 
fess — that appearances are against me — if you will 
afford me your patience — I make no doubt — but I 
shall explain everything to your satisfaction. 

Sir Pet. If you please, sir. 

Jos. Surf The fact is, sir, that lady Teazle, 
knowing my pretensions to your ward Maria — I 
say, sir, — lady Teazle, being apprehensive of the 
jealousy of your temper — and knowing my friend- 
ship t8 the family — she, sir, I say — called here — in 
order that — I might explain these pretensions — but 
on your coming — being apprehensive — as I said — 
of your jealousy — she withdrew — and this, you 
may depend on it, is the whole truth of the matter. 

Sir Pet. A very clear account, upon my word ! 
and I dare swear the lady will vouch for every 
article of it. 

Lady Teaz. For not one word of it, sir Peter ! 

Sir Pet. How ! don't you think it worth while 
to agree in the lie ? 

Lady Teaz. There is not one syllable of truth in 
what that gentleman has told you. 

Sir Pet. I believe you, upon my soul, ma'am ! 

Jos. Surf. [Aside to Lady Teazle.] 'Sdeath, 
madam, will you betray me ? 

Lady Teaz. Good Mr. Hypocrite, by your leave, 
I'll speak for myself. 

Sir Pet. Ay, let her alone, sir ; you'll find 
she'll make out a better story than you, without 
prompting. 

Lady Teaz. Hear me, sir Peter ! — I came hither 
on no matter relating to your ward, and even igno- 
rant of this gentleman's pretensions to her. But 
I came seduced by his insidious arguments, at least 
to listen to his pretended passion, if not to sacri- 
fice your honour to his baseness. 

Sir Pet. Now, I believe, the truth is coming 
indeed ! 

Jos. Surf. The woman's mad ! 

Lady Teaz. No, sir ; she has recovered her 
senses, and your own arts have furnished her with 
the means. — Sir Peter, I do not expect you to cre- 
dit me — but the tenderness you expressed for me, 
when I am sure you could not think I was a wit- 
ness to it, has penetrated so to my heart, that had 
I left the place without the shame of this discovery, 
my future life should have spoken the sincerity of 
my gratitude. As for that smooth-tongued hypo- 
crite, who would have seduced the wife of his too 
credulous friend, while he affected honourable ad- 
dresses to his ward, I behold him now in a light so 
truly despicable, that I shall never again respect 
myself for having listened to him. [Exit. 

Jos. Surf Notwithstanding all this, sir Peter, 
Heaven knows — 

Sir Pet. That you are a villain ! and so I leave 
you to your conscience. 

Jos. Surf Tou are too rash, sir Peter; you shall 
hear me. — The man who shuts out conviction by 
refusing to — 

[Exeunt Sir Peter and Joseph Surface talking. 



SCENE I. 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 



101 



ACT V. 



SCENE I.— The Library in Joseph Surface's 
House. 

Enter Joseph Surface and Servant. 

Jos. Surf. Mr. Stanley ! — and why should you 
think 1 would see him ? you must know he comes 
to ask something. 

Ser. Sir, I should not have let him in, but that 
Mr. Rowley came to the door with him. 

Jos. Surf. Psha ! blockhead ! to suppose that I 
should now be in a temper to receive visits from 
poor relations ! — Well, why don't you show the 
fellow up ? 

Ser. I will, sir. — Why, sir, it was not my fault 
that sir Peter discovered my lady — 

Jos. Surf. Go, fool ! — [Exit Servant.] Sure 
Fortune never played a man of my policy such a 
trick before ! My character with sir Peter, my 
hopes with Maria, destroyed in a moment ! I'm 
in a rare humour to listen to other people's dis- 
tresses ! I shan't be able to bestow even a bene- 
volent sentiment on Stanley. — So ! here he comes, 
and Rowley with him. I must try to recover my- 
self, and put a little charity into my face, however. 

[Exit. 

Enter Sir Oliver Surface and Rowley. 

Sir Oliv. What ! does he avoid us ? That was 
he, was it not ? 

Row. It was, sir. But I doubt you are come a 
little too abruptly. His nerves are so weak, that 
the sight of a poor relation may be too much for 
him. I should have gone first to break it to him. 

Sir Oliv. Oh, plague of his nerves ! Yet this is 
he whom sir Peter extols as a man of the most be- 
nevolent way of thinking ! 

Row. As to his way of thinking, I cannot pre- 
tend to decide ; for, to do him justice, he appears 
to have as much speculative benevolence as any 
private gentleman in the kingdom, though he is 
seldom so sensual as to indulge himself in the 
exercise of it. 

Sir Oliv. Yet has a string of charitable senti- 
ments at his fingers' ends. 

Row. Or rather, at his tongue's end, sir Oliver ; 
for I believe there is no sentiment he has such faith 
in as that Charity begins at home. 

Sir Oliv. And his, I presume, is of that domes- 
tic sort which never stirs abroad at all. 

Row. I doubt you'll find it so ; — but he's com- 
ing. I mustn't seem to interrupt you ; and you 
know immediately as you leave him, I come in to 
announce your arrival in your real character. 

Sir Oliv. True ; and afterwards you'll meet me 
at sir Peter's. 

Row. Without losing a moment. [Exit. 

Sir Oliv. I don't like the complaisance of his 
features. 

Re-enter Joseph Surface. 

Jos. Surf. Sir, I beg you ten thousand pardons 
for keeping you a moment waiting. — Mr. Stanley, 
I presume. 

Sir Oliv. At your service. 

Jos. Surf. Sir, I beg you will do me the honour 
to sit down — I entreat you, sir. 



Sir Oliv. Dear sir — there's no occasion. — 
[Aside.'] Too civil by half ! 

Jos. Surf. I have not the pleasure of knowing 
you, Mr. Stanley ; but I am extremely happy to 
see you look so well. You were nearly related to 
my mother, I think, Mr. Stanley ? 

Sir Oliv. I was, sir ; so nearly that my present 
poverty, I fear, may do discredit to her wealthy 
children, else I should not have presumed to trouble 
you. 

Jos. Surf. Dear sir, there needs no apology : — 
he that is in distress though a stranger, has a right 
to claim kindred with the wealthy. I am sure 1 
wish I was of that class, and had it in my power to 
offer you even a small relief. 

Sir Oliv. If your uncle, sir Oliver, were here, I 
should have a friend. 

Jos. Surf. I wish he was, sir, with all my heart : 
you should not want an advocate with him, believe 
me, sir. 

Sir Oliv. I should not need one — my distresses 
would recommend me. But I imagined his bounty 
would enable you to become the agent of his 
charity. 

Jos. Surf. My dear sir, you were strangely 
misinformed. Sir Oliver is a worthy man, a very 
worthy man ; but avarice, Mr- Stanley, is the vice 
of age. I will tell you, my good sir, in confidence, 
what he has done for me has been a mere nothing ; 
though people, I know, have thought otherwise, 
and, for my part, I never chose to contradict the 
report. 

Sir Oliv. What ! has he never transmitted you 
bullion — rupees — pagodas ? 

Jos. Surf. Oh, dear sir, nothing of the kind ! — 
No, no ; a few presents now and then — china, 
shawls, congou tea, avadavats, and Indian crackers 
— little more, believe me. 

Sir Oliv. Here's gratitude for twelve thousand 
pounds ! — Avadavats and Indian crackers ! [Aside. 
Jos Surf. Then, my dear sir, you have heard, I 
doubt not, of the extravagance of my brother : there 
are very few would credit what I have done for that 
unfortunate young man. 

Sir Oliv. Not I, for one ! [Aside. 

Jos. Surf. The sums I have lent him ! — Indeed 
I have been exceedingly to blame ; it was an ami- 
able weakness : however, I don't pretend to defend 
it, — and now I feel it doubly culpable, since it has 
deprived me of the pleasure of serving you, Mr. 
Stanley, as my heart dictates. 

Sir Oliv. [Aside.] Dissembler ! — [Aloud.] 
Then, sir, you can't assist me ? 

Jos. Surf. At present, it grieves me to say, I 
cannot ; but, whenever I have the ability, you may 
depend upon hearing from me. 
Sir Oliv. I am extremely sorry — 
Jos. Surf Not more than I, believe me ; — to 
pity without the power to relieve, is still more pain- 
ful than to ask and be denied. 

Sir Oliv. Kind sir, your most obedient humble 
servant. 

Jos. Surf. You leave me deeply affected, Mr. 
Stanley. — William, be ready to open the door. 

[Calls to Servant. 



102 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 



Sir Oliv. Oh, dear sir, no ceremony. 

Jos. Surf. Your very obedient. 

Sir Oliv. Sir, your most obsequious. 

Jos. Surf. You may depend upon hearing from 
me, whenever I can be of service. 

Sir Oliv. Sweet sir, you are too good ! 

Jos. Surf. In the mean time, I wish you health 
and spirits. 

Sir Oliv. Your ever grateful and perpetual hum- 
ble servant. 

Jos. Surf. Sir, yours as sincerely. 

Sir Oliv. [Aside.] Charles, you are my heir ! 

[Exit. 

Jos. Surf. This is one bad effect of a good cha- 
racter ; it invites application from the unfortunate, 
and there needs no small degree of address to gain 
the reputation of benevolence without incurring the 
expense. The silver ore of pure charity is an ex- 
pensive article in the catalogue of a man's good 
qualities ; whereas the sentimental French plate I 
use instead of it, makes just as good a show, and 
pays no tax. 

Re-enter Rowley. 

Row. Mr. Surface, your servant : I was appre- 
hensive of interrupting you, though my business 
demands immediate attention as this note will in- 
form you. 

Jos. Surf. Always happy to see Mr. Rowley — 
[Reads the letter.'] Sir Oliver Surface ! — My uncle 
arrived ! 

Row. He is, indeed : we have just parted — quite 
well, after a speedy voyage, and impatient to em- 
brace his worthy nephew. 

Jos. Surf. I am astonished ! — William ! stop 
Mr. Stanley, if he's not gone. [Calls to Servant. 

Row. Oh ! he's out of reach, I believe. 

Jos. Surf. Why did you not let me know this 
when you came in together ? 

Row. I thought you had particular business. 
But I must be gone to inform your brother, and 
appoint him here to meet your uncle. He will be 
with you in a quarter of an hour. 

Jos. Surf. So he says. Well, I am strangely 
overjoyed at his coming. — [Aside.] Never, to be 
sure, was anything so damned unlucky ! 

Row. You will be delighted to see how well he 
looks. 

Jos. Surf. Ah ! I'm rejoiced to hear it — lAside.] 
Just at this time ! 

Row. I'll tell him how impatiently you expect 
him. 

Jos. Surf. Do, do ; pray give him my best duty 
and affection. Indeed, I cannot express the sensa- 
tions 1 feel at the thought of seeing him. — [Exit 
Rowley.] Certainly his coming just at this time 
is the cruellest piece of ill-fortune ! [Exit. 



SCENE II. — A Room in Sir Peter Teazle's 
House. 

Enter Mrs. Candour and Maid. 

Maid. Indeed, ma'am, my lady will see nobody 
at present. 

Mrs. Can. Did you tell her it was her friend 
Mrs. Candour ? 

Maid. Yes, ma'am ; but she begs you will excuse 
her. 

Mrs. Can. Do go again ; I shall be glad to see 



her, if it be only for a moment, for I am sure she 
must be in great distress. — [Exit Maid.] Dear 
heart, how provoking ! I'm not mistress of half 
the circumstances ! We shall have the whole affair 
in the newspapers, with the names of the parties 
at length, before I have dropped the story at a 
dozen houses. 

Enter Sir Benjamin Backbite. 
Oh, sir Benjamin ! you have heard, I suppose — 

Sir Ben. Of lady Teazle and Mr. Surface — 

Mrs. Can. And sir Peter's discovery — 

Sir Ben. Oh, the strangest piece of business, to 
be sure ! 

Mrs. Can. Well, I never was so surprised in 
my life. I am so sorry for all parties, indeed. 

Sir Ben. Now, I don't pity sir Peter at all : he 
was so extravagantly partial to Mr. Surface. 

Mrs. Can. Mr. Surface ! Why, 'twas with 
Charles lady Teazle was detected. 

Sir Ben. No, no, I tell you : Mr. Surface is the 
gallant. 

Mrs. Can. No such thing ! Charles is the man. 
'Twas Mr. Surface brought sir Peter on purpose to 
discover them. 

Sir Ben. I tell you I had it from one — 

Mrs ■ Can. And I have it from one — 

Sir Ben. Who had it from one, who had it — 

Mrs. Can. From one immediately. — But here 
comes lady Sneerwell ; perhaps she knows the 
whole affair. 

Enter Lady Sneerwell. 

Lady Sneer. So, my dear Mrs. Candour, here's 
a sad affair of our friend lady Teazle ! 

Mrs. Can. Ay, my dear friend, who would have 
thought — 

Lady Sneer. Well, there is no trusting appear- 
ances ; though, indeed, she was always toe lively 
for me. 

Mrs. Can. To be sure, her manners were a little 
too free : but then she was so young ! 

Lady Sneer. And had, indeed, some good qua- 
lities. 

Mrs. Can. So she had, indeed. But have you 
heard the particulars ? 

Lady Sneer. No ; but everybody says that Mr. 
Surface — 

Sir Ben. Ay, therev; I told you Mr. Surface 
was the man ! 

Mrs. Can. No, no : indeed the assignation was 
with Charles. 

Lady Sneer. With Charles ! You alarm me, 
Mrs. Candour ! 

Mrs. Can. Yes, yes, he was the lover. Mr. 
Surface, to do him justice, was only the informer. 

Sir Ben. Well, I'll not dispute with you, Mrs. 
Candour ; but, be it which it may, I hope that sir 
Peter's wound will not — 

Mrs. Can. Sir Peter's wound ! Oh, mercy ! I 
didn't hear a word of their fighting. 

Lady Sneer. Nor I, a syllable. 

Sir Ben. No ! what, no mention of the duel ? 

Mrs. Can. Not a word. 

Sir Ben. O yes : they fought before they left 
the room. 

Lady Sneer. Pray, let us hear. 

Mrs. Can. Ay, do oblige us with the duel. 

Sir Ben. Sir, says sir Peter, immediately after 
the discovery, you are a most ungrateful fellow. 

Mrs. Can. Ay, to Charles — 






THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 



103 



Sir Ben. No, no — to Mr. Surface — a most un- 
grateful fellow ; and old as I am, sir, says he, / 
insist on immediate satisfaction. 

Mrs. Can, Ay, that must have been to Charles; 
for 'tis very unlikely Mr. Surface should fight in 
bis own house. 

Sir Ben. Gad's life, ma'am, not at all— giving 
me immediate satisfaction. — On this, ma'am, lady 
Teazle, seeing sir Peter in such danger, ran out of 
tbe room in strong hysterics, and Charles after 
her, calling out for hartshorn and water ; then, 
madam, they began to fight with swords — 

Enter Crabtree. 

Crab. With pistols, nephew— pistols ! I have 
it from undoubted authority. 

Mrs. Can. O Mr. Crabtree, then it is all true ! 

Crab. Too true, indeed, madam, and sir Peter is 
dangerously wounded — 

Sir Ben. By a thrust in second quite through 
his left side — 

Crab. By a bullet lodged in the thorax. 

Mrs. Can. Mercy on me ! Poor sir Peter ! 

Crab. Yes, madam ; though Charles would have 
avoided the matter, if he could. 

Mrs. Can. I knew Charles was the person. 

Sir Ben. My uncle, I see, knows nothing of the 
matter. 

Crab. But sir Peter taxed him with the basest 
ingratitude — 

Sir Ben. That I told you, you know — 

Crab. Do, nephew, let me speak ! — and insisted 
on immediate — 

Sir Ben. Just as I said — 

Crab. Odds life, nephew, allow others to know 
something too ! — A pair of pistols lay on the bureau 
(for Mr. Surface, it seems, had come home the 
night before late from Salthill, where he had been 
to see the Montem with a friend, who has a son at 
Eton), so, unluckily, the pistols were left charged. 

Sir Ben. I heard nothing of this. 

Crab. Sir Peter forced Charles to take one, 
and they fired, it seems, pretty nearly together. 
Charles's shot took effect, as I tell you, and sir 
Peter's missed ; but what is very extraordinary, 
the ball struck against a little bronze Shakspeare 
that stood over the fire-place, grazed out of the 
window at a right angle, and wounded the post- 
man, who was just coming to the door with a double 
letter from Northamptonshire. 

Sir Ben. My uncle's account is more circum- 
stantial, I confess ; but I believe mine is the true 
one, for all that. 

Lady Sneer. [Aside.] I am more interested in 

this affair than they imagine, and must have better 

information. [Exit. 

Sir Ben. Ah ! lady Sneerwell's alarm is very 

easily accounted for. 

Crab. Yes, yes, they certainly do say — but that's 
neither here nor there. 

Mrs. Can. But, pray, where is sir Peter at 
present ? 

Crab. Oh ! they brought him home, and he is 
now in the house, though the servants are ordered 
to deny him. 

Mrs. Can. I believe so, and lady Teazle, I sup- 
pose, attending him. 

Crab. Yes, yes ;, and I saw one of the faculty 
enter just before me. 

Sir Ben. Hey ! who comes here ? 



Crab. Oh, this is he : the physician, depend 
on't. 

Mrs. Can. Oh, certainly ! it must be the phy- 
sician ; and now we shall know. 

Enter Sir Oliver Surface. 
Crab. Well, doctor, what hopes ? 
Mrs. Can. Ay, doctor, how's your patient ? 
Sir Ben. Now, doctor, isn't it a wound with a 
small-sword ? 

Crab. A bullet lodged in the thorax, for a hun- 
dred ! 

Sir Oliv. Doctor ! a wound with a small-sword ! 
and a bullet in the thorax ! — Oons ! are you mad, 
good people ? 

Sir Ben. Perhaps, sir, you are not a doctor ? 
Sir Oliv. Truly, I am to thank you for my 
degree, if I am. 

Crab. Only a friend of sir Peter's, then, I pre- 
sume. But, sir, you must have heard of his 
accident ? 

Sir Oliv. Not a word ! 

Crab. Not of his being dangerously wounded ? 
Sir Oliv. The devil he is ! 
Sir Ben. Run through the body — 
Crab. Shot in the breast — 
Sir Ben. By one Mr. Surface — 
Crab. Ay, the younger. 

Sir Oliv. Hey ! what the plague ! you seem to 
differ strangely in your accounts : however, you 
agree that sir Peter is dangerously wounded. 
Sir Ben. O yes, we agree there. 
Crab. Yes, yes, I believe there can be no doubt 
of that. 

Sir Oliv. Then, upon my word, for a person in 
that situation, he is the most imprudent man alive ; 
for here he comes, walking as if nothing at all was 
the matter. 

Enter Sir Peter Teazle. 
Odds heart, sir Peter ! you are come in good time, 
I promise you ; for we had just given you over i 

Sir Ben. [Aside to Crabtree.] Egad, uncle, 
this is the most sudden recovery ! 

Sir Oliv. Why, man 1 what do you out of bed 
with a small-sword through your body, and a 
bullet lodged in your thorax ? 

Sir Pet. A small-sword and a bullet ! 
Sir Oliv. Ay ; these gentlemen would have killed 
you without law or physic, and wanted to dub me 
a doctor, to make me an accomplice. 
Sir Pet. Why, what is all this ? 
Sir Ben. We rejoice, sir Peter, that the story 
of the duel is not true, and are sincerely sorry for 
your other misfortune. 

Sir Pet. So, so ; all over the town already ! 

[Aside. 
Crab. Though, sir Peter, you were certainly 
vastly to blame to marry at your years. 

Sir Pet. Sir, what business is that of yours ? 
Mrs. Can. Though, indeed, as sir Peter made 
so good a husband, he's very much to be pitied. 

Sir Pet. Plague on your pity, ma'am ! I desire 
none of it. 

Sir Ben. However, sir Peter, you must not 
mind the laughing and jests you will meet with on 
the occasion. 

Sir Pet. Sir, sir ! I desire to be master in my 
own house. 

Crab. 'Tis no uncommon case, that's one com- 
fort. 



104 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 



ACT V. 



Sir Pet. I insist on being left to myself : with- 
out ceremony, I insist on your leaving my house 
directly ! 

Mrs. Can. Well, well, we are going ; and de- 
pend on't, we'll make the best report of it we can. 

[Exit. 
■ Sir Pet. Leave my house ! 

Crab. And tell how hardly you've been treated. 

[Exit. 

Sir Pet. Leave my house ! 

Sir Ben. And how patiently you bear it. [Exit. 

Sir Pet. Fiends ! vipers ! furies ! — Oh ! that 
their own venom would choke them ! 

Sir Oliv. They are very provoking indeed, sir 
Peter. 

Enter Rowley. 

Bow. I heard high words : what has ruffled you, 
sir? 

Sir Pet. Psha ! what signifies asking ? Do I 
ever pass a day without my vexations ? 

Bow. Well, I'm not inquisitive. 

Sir Oliv. Well, sir Peter, I have seen both my 
nephews in the manner we proposed. 

Sir Pet. A precious couple they are ! 

Boiv. Yes, and sir Oliver is convinced that your 
judgment was right, sir Peter. 

Sir Oliv. Yes, I find Joseph is indeed the man, 
after all. 

Bow. Ay, as sir Peter says, he is a man of sen- 
timent. 

Sir Oliv. And acts up to the sentiments he pro- 
fesses. 

Bow. It certainly is edification to hear him 
talk. 

Sir Oliv. Oh, he's a model for the young men of 
the age! — But how's this, sir Peter? you don't 
join us in your friend Joseph's praise, as I expected. 

Sir Pet. Sir Oliver, we live in a damned wicked 
world, and the fewer we praise the better. 

Bow. What ! do you say so, sir Peter, who 
were never mistaken in your life ! 

Sir Pet. Psha i plague on you both ! I see by 
your sneering you have heard the whole affair. I 
shall go mad among you ! 

Bow. Then to fret you no longer, sir Peter, we 
are indeed acquainted with it all. I met Lady 
Teazle coming from Mr. Surface's so humbled, that 
she deigned to request me to be her advocate with 
you. 

Sir Pet. And does sir Oliver know all this ? 

Sir Oliv. Every circumstance. 

Sir Pet. What of the closet and the screen, hey ? 

Sir Oliv. Yes, yes, and the little French milliner. 
Oh, I have been vastly diverted with the story ! ha ! 
ha ! ha ! 

Sir Pet. 'Twas very pleasant ! 

Sir Oliv. I never laughed more in my life, I 
assure you : ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Sir Pet. Oh, vastly diverting ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Bow. To be sure, Joseph with his sentiments ! 
ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Sir Pet. Yes, yes, his sentiments ! ha ! ha ! 
ha ! Hypocritical villain ! 

Sir Oliv. Ay, and that rogue Charles to pull sir 
Peter out of the closet : ha ! ha ! ha ! 

S^r Pet. Ha ! ha ! 'twas devilish entertaining, to 
be sure ! 

Sir Oliv. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Egad, sir Peter, I 
should like to have seen your face when the screen 
was thrown down : ha i ha '. 



Sir Pet. Yes,. yes, my face when the screen was 
thrown down : ha ! ha ! ha ! Oh, I must never 
show my head again ! 

Sir Oliv. But come, come, it isn't fair to laugh 
at you neither, my old friend ; though, upon my 
soul, I can't help it. 

Sir Pet. Oh, pray don't restrain your mirth on 
my account : it does not hurt me at all ! I laugh 
at the whole affair myself. Yes, yes, I think being 
a standing jest for all one's acquaintance a very 
happy situation. O yes, and then of a morning to 
read the paragraphs about Mr. S — , lady T — , and 
sir P — , will be so entertaining ! 

Bow. Without affectation, sir Peter, you may 
despise the ridicule of fools. — But I see lady 
Teazle going towards the next room ; I am sure 
you must desire a reconciliation as earnestly as she 
does. 

Sir Oliv. Perhaps my being here prevents her 
coming to you. Well, I'll leave honest Rowley to 
mediate between you ; but he must bring you all 
presently to Mr. Surface's, where I am now re- 
turning, if not to reclaim a libertine, at least to 
expose hypocrisy. 

Sir Pet. Ah, I'll be present at your discovering 
yourself there with all my heart ; though 'tis a vile 
unlucky place for discoveries. 

Bow. We'll follow. [Exit Sir Oliver Surfacb. 

Sir Pet. She is not coming here, you see, 
Rowley,, 

Bow. No, but she has left the door of that room 
optn, you perceive. See, she is in tears. 

Sir Pet. Certainly a little mortification appears 
very becoming in a wife. Don't you think it will 
do her good to let her pine a little ? 

Bow. Oh, this is ungenerous in you ! 

Sir Pet. Well, I know not what to think. You 
remember the letter I found of hers evidently in- 
tended for Charles ? 

Bow. A mere forgery, sir Peter ! laid in your 
way on purpose. This is one of the points which 
I intend Snake shall give you conviction of. 

Sir Pet. I wish I were once satisfied of that. — 
She looks this way. — What a remarkably elegant 
turn of the head she has ! Rowley, I'll go to her. 

Bow. Certainly. 

Sir Pet. Though when it is known that we are 
reconciled, people will laugh at me ten times more. 

Bow. Let them laugh, and retort their malice 
only by showing them you are happy in spite of it. 

Sir Pet. I'faith, so I will ! and, if I'm not 
mistaken, we may yet be the happiest couple in the 
country. 

Bow. Nay, sir Peter, he who once lays aside 
suspicion — 

Sir Pet. Hold, master Rowley ! if you have any 
regard for me, never let me hear you utter any- 
thing like a sentiment : I have had enough of them 
to serve me the rest of my life. [Exeunt. 



SCENE III.— The Library in Joseph 

Surface's House. 

Enter Joseph Surface and Lady Sneerwell. 

Lady Sneer. Impossible ! Will not sir Peter 

immediately be reconciled to Charles, and of course 

no longer oppose his union with Maria ? The 

thought is distraction to me. 

Jos. Surf. Can passion furnish a remedy ? 






SCENE III. 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 



105 



Lady Sneer. No, nor cunning neither. Oh, I 
was a fool, an idiot, to league with such a blun- 
derer ! 

Jos. Surf. Sure, lady Sneerwell, I am the 
greatest sufferer ; yet you see I bear the accident 
with calmness. 

Lady Sneer. Because the disappointment doesn't 
reach your heart ; your interest only attached you 
to Maria. Had you felt for her what I have for 
that ungrateful libertine, neither your temper nor 
hypocrisy could prevent your showing the sharp- 
ness of your vexation. 

Jos. Surf. But why should your reproaches fall 
on me for this disappointment ? 

Lady Sneer. Are you not the cause of it ? Had 
you not a sufficient field for your roguery in impos- 
ing upon sir Peter, and supplanting your brother, 
but you must endeavour to seduce his wife ? I hate 
such an avarice of crimes ; 'tis an unfair monopoly, 
and never prospers. 

Jos. Surf. Well, 1 admit I have been to blame. 
I confess I deviated from the direct road of wrong, 
but I don't think we're so totally defeated neither. 

Lady Sneer. No ! 

Jos. Surf. You tell me you have made a trial of 
Snake since we met, and that you still believe him 
faithful to us ? 

Lady Sneer. I do believe so. 

Jos. Surf. And that he has undertaken, should 
it be necessary, to swear and prove, that Charles 
is at this time contracted by vows and honour to 
your ladyship, which some of his former letters to 
you will serve to support ? 

Lady Sneer. This, indeed, might have assisted. 

Jos. Surf. Come, come ; it is not too late yet. 
— [Knocking at the door.] But hark 1 this is pro- 
bably my uncle, sir Oliver : retire to that room ; 
we'll consult farther when he is gone. 

Lady Sneer. Well, but if he should find you out 
too? 

Jos. Surf. Oh, I have no fear of that. Sir Peter 
will hold his tongue for his own credit's sake — and 
you may depend on it I shall soon discover sir 
Oliver's weak side ! 

Lady Sneer. I have no diffidence of your abili- 
ties : only be constant to one roguery at a time. 

Jos. Surf. I will, I will ! — [Exit Lady Sneer- 
well.] So ! 'tis confounded hard, after such bad 
fortune, to be baited by one's confederate in evil. 
Well, at all events, my character is so much better 
than Charles's, that I certainly — hey ! — what ! — 
this is not sir Oliver, but old Stanley again. 
Plague on't that he should return to tease me just 
now ! — I shall have sir Oliver come and find him 
here — and — 

Enter Sir Oliver Surface. 

Gad's life, Mr. Stanley, why have you come back 
to plague me at this time ? You must not stay now, 
upon my word. 

Sir Oliv. Sir, I hear your uncle Oliver is ex- 
pected here, and though he has been so penurious 
to you, I'll try what he'll do for me. 

Jos. Surf. Sir, 'tis impossible for you to stay 
now, so I must beg— Come any other time, and I 
promise you, you shall be assisted. 

Sir Oliv. No : sir Oliver and I must be ac- 
quainted. 

Jos. Surf. Zounds, sir ! then I insist on your 
quitting the room directly. 



Sir Oliv. Nay, sir — 

Jos. Surf. Sir, I insist on't ! — Here, William ! 
show this gentleman out. — Since you compel me, 
sir, not one moment — this is such insolence. 

[Going to push him out. 

Enter Charles Surface. 

Chas. Surf. Heyday ! what's the matter now ? 
What the devil, have you got hold of my little bro- 
ker here ? Zounds, brother ! don't hurt little Pre- 
mium. — What's the matter, my little fellow ? 

Jos. Surf. So ! he has been with you too, has 
he? 

Chas. Surf. To be sure he has. Why he's as 
honest a little — But sure, Joseph, you have not 
been borrowing money too, have you ? 

Jos. Surf. Borrowing ! no ! But, brother, you 
know we expect sir Oliver here every — 

Chas. Surf. O Gad, that's true ! Noll mustn't 
find the little broker here, to be sure. 

Jos. Surf. Yet Mr. Stanley insists — 

Chas. Surf. Stanley ! why his name's Premium. 

Jos. Surf. No, sir, Stanley. 

Chas. Surf No, no, Premium. 

Jos. Surf. Well, no matter which — but — 

Chas. Surf. Ay, ay, Stanley or Premium, 'tis the 
same thing, as you say ; for I suppose he goes by 
half a hundred names, besides A. B. at the coffee- 
house. [Knocking. 

Jos. Surf. 'Sdeath ! here's sir Oliver at the door. 
— Now I beg, Mr. Stanley — 

Chas. Surf. Ay, ay, and I beg, Mr. Premium — 

Sir Oliv. Gentlemen — 

Jos. Surf. Sir, by Heaven you shall go ! 

Chas. Surf. Ay, out with him, certainly! 

Sir Oliv. This violence — 

Jos. Surf. Sir, 'tis your own fault. 

Chas. Surf. Out with him, to be sure. 

[Both forcing Sir Oliver out-. 

Enter Sir Peter and Lady Teazle, Maria and Rowley. 

Sir Pet. My old friend, sir Oliver — hey ! What 
in the name of wonder — here are dutiful nephews 
— assault their uncle at a first visit ! 

Lady Teaz. Indeed, sir Oliver, 'twas well we 
came in to rescue you. 

Row. Truly it was ; for I perceive, sir Oliver, 
the character of old Stanley was no protection to 
you. 

Sir Oliv. Nor of Premium either : the necessi- 
ties of the former could not extort a shilling from 
that benevolent gentleman ; and now, egad, I stood 
a chance of faring worse than my ancestors, and 
being knocked down without being bid for. 

Jos. Surf. Charles ! 

Chas. Surf. Joseph ! 

Jos. Surf. 'Tis now complete ! 

Chas. Surf. Very ! 

Sir Oliv. Sir Peter, my friend, and Rowley too 
— look on that elder nephew of mine. You know 
what he has already received from my bounty ; and 
you also know how gladly I would have regarded 
half my fortune as held in trust for him : judge 
then my disappoinment in discovering him to be 
destitute of faith, charity, and gratitude ! 
fSir Pet. Sir Oliver, I should be more surprised 
at this declaration, if I had not myself found him 
to be mean, treacherous, and hypocritical. 

Lady Teaz. And if the gentleman pleads not 
guilty to these, pray let him call me to his cha- 
racter. 



106 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 



Sir Pet. Then, I believe, we need add no more : 
if he knows himself, he will consider it as the most 
perfect punishment, that he is known to the world. 

Chas. Surf. If they talk this way to Honesty, 
what will they say to me, by and by ? I Aside. 

Sir Oliv. As for that prodigal, his brother, 
there — 

Chas. Surf. Ay, now comes my turn : the 
damned family pictures will ruin me ! [Aside. 

Jos. Surf. Sir Oliver — uncle, will you honour 
me with a hearing ? 

Chas. Surf. Now if Joseph would make one of 
his long speeches, I might recollect myself a little. 

[Aside. 

Sir Pet. I suppose you would undertake to jus- 
tify yourself entirely ? [To Joseph Surface. 

Jos. Surf. I trust I could. 

Sir Oliv. Well, sir ! — and you could justify 
yourself too, I suppose ? [To Charles Surface. 

Chas. Surf. Not that I know of, sir Oliver. 

Sir Oliv. What ! — Little Premium has been let 
too much into the secret, I suppose ? 

Chas. Surf. True, sir ; but they were family 
secrets, and should not be mentioned again, you 
know. 

Row. Come, sir Oliver, I know you cannot 
speak of Charles's follies with anger. 

Sir Oliv. Odd's heart, no more I can ; nor with 
gravity either. — Sir Peter, do you know, the rogue 
bargained with me for all his ancestors ; sold me 
judges and generals by the foot, and maiden aunts 
as cheap as broken china. 

Chas. Surf. To be sure, sir Oliver, I did make 
a little free with the family canvas, that's the truth 
on't. My ancestors may rise in judgment against 
me, there's no denying it ; but believe me sincere 
when I tell you — and upon my soul I would not 
say so if I was not — that if I do not appear mor- 
tified at the exposure of my follies, it is because I 
feel at this moment the warmest satisfaction in 
heeing you, my liberal benefactor. 

Sir Oliv. Charles, I believe you. Give me 
your hand again : the ill-looking little fellow over 
the settee has made your peace. 

Chas. Surf. Then, sir, my gratitude to the ori- 
ginal is still increased. 

Lady Teaz. Yet, I believe, sir Oliver, here is 
one whom Charles is still more anxious to be re- 
conciled to. [Pointing to MARrA. 

Sir Oliv. Oh, I have heard of his attachment 
there ; and, with the young lady's pardon, if I 
construe right — that blush — 

Sir Pet. Well, child, speak your sentiments ! 

Mar. Sir, I have little to say, but that I shall 
rejoice to hear that he is happy ; for me — whatever 
claim I had to his affection, I willingly resign to 
one who has a better title. 

Chas. Surf. How, Maria ! 

Sir Pet. Heyday ! what's the mystery now ? — 
While he appeared an incorrigible rake, you would 
give your hand to no one else ; and now that he is 
likely to reform, I'll warrant you won't have him ! 

Mar. His own heart and lady Sneerwell know 
the cause. 

Chas. Surf. Lady Sneerwell ! 

Jos. Surf. Brother, it is with great concern I 
am obliged to speak on this point, but my regard 
to justice compels me, and lady Sneerwell's injuries 
can no longer be concealed. [Opens the door. 



Enter Lady Sneerwell. 

Sir Pet. So ! another French milliner ! Egad, 
he has one in every room in the house, I suppose ! 

Lady Sneer. Ungrateful Charles ! Well may 
you be surprised, and feel for the indelicate situa- 
tion your perfidy has forced me into. 

Chas. Surf. Pray, uncle, is this another plot of 
yours ? For, as I have life, I don't understand it. 

Jos. Surf. I believe, sir, there is but the evi- 
dence of one person more necessary to make it 
extremely clear. 

Sir Pet. And that person, I imagine, is Mr. 
Snake. — Rowley, you were perfectly right to bring 
him with us, and pi-ay let him appear. 

Row. Walk in, Mr. Snake. 
Enter Snake. 
I thought his testimony might be wanted : how- 
ever, it happens unluckily, that he comes to con- 
front lady Sneerwell, not to support her. 

Lady Sneer. A villain ! Treacherous to me at 
last ! — Speak, fellow ; have you too conspired 
against me ? 

Snake. I beg your ladyship ten thousand par- 
dons : you paid me extremely liberally for the he 
in question ; but I unfortunately have been offered 
double to speak the truth, 

Sir Pet. Plot and counter-plot, egad ! 

Lady Sneer. The torments of shame and disap- 
pointment on you all ! [Going. 

Lady Teaz. Hold, lady Sneerwell — before you 
go, let me thank you for the trouble you and that 
gentleman have taken, in writing letters from me 
to Charles, and answering them yourself; and let 
me also request you to make my respects to the 
scandalous college, of which you are president, 
and inform them, that lady Teazle, licentiate, begs 
leave to return the diploma they gave her, as she 
leaves off practice, and kills characters no longer. 

Lady Sneer. You too, madam ! — provoking — 
insolent ! — May your husband live these fifty 
years ! [Exit. 

Sir Pet. Oons ! what a fury ! 

Lady Teaz. A malicious creature, indeed ! 

Sir Pet. Hey ! not for her last wish ? 

Lady Teaz. O no ! 

Sir Oliv. Well, sir, and what have you to say 
now ? 

Jos. Surf. Sir, I am so confounded, to find 
that lady Sneerwell could be guilty of suborning 
Mr. Snake in this manner, to impose on us all, 
that I know not what to say : however, lest her 
revengeful spirit should prompt her to injure my 
brother, I had certainly better follow her directly. 

[Exit. 

Sir Pet. Moral to the last drop ! 

Sir Oliv. Ay, and marry her, Joseph, if you 
can. — Oil and vinegar, egad ! you'll do very well 
together. 

Row. I believe we have no more occasion for 
Mr. Snake at present ? 

Snake. Before I go, I beg pardon once for all, 
for whatever uneasiness I have been the humble 
instrument of causing to the parties present. 

Sir Pet. Well, well, you have made atonement 
by a good deed at last. 

Snake. But I must request of the company, 
that it shall never be known. 

Sir Pet. Hey ! what the plague ! are you 
ashamed of having done a right thing once in your 
life ? 



SCENE III. 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. 



107 



Snake. Ah, sir ! consider, — I live by the badness 
of my character ; I have nothing but my infamy to 
depend on ! and if it were once known that I had 
been betrayed into an honest action, I should lose 
every friend I have in the world. 

Sir Oliv. Well, well, — we'll not traduce you by 
saying anything in your praise, never fear. 

[Exit Snake. 

Sir Pet. There's a precious rogue ! 

Lady Teaz. See, sir Oliver, there needs no per- 
suasion now to reconcile your nephew and Maria. 

Sir Oliv. Ay, ay, that's as it should be, and, 
egad, we'll have the wedding to-morrow morning. 

Chas. Surf. Thank you, dear uncle ! 

Sir Pet. What, you rogue ! don't you ask the 
girl's consent first ? 

Chas. Surf. Oh, I have done that a long time 
— a minute ago — and she has looked yes. 

Mar. For shame, Charles ! — I protest, sir Peter, 
there has not been a word — 

Sir Oliv. Well, then, the fewer the better ; — 
may your love for each other never know abate- 
ment. 

Sir Pet. And may you live as happily together 
as lady Teazle and I— intend to do ! 



Chas. Surf. Rowley, my old friend, I am sure 
you congratulate me ; and I suspect that I owe 
you much. 

Sir Oliv. You do indeed, Charles. 

Row. If my efforts to serve you had not suc- 
ceeded, you would have been in my debt for the 
attempt ; but deserve to be happy, and you over- 
pay me. 

Sir Pet. Ay, honest Rowley always said you 
would reform. 

Chas. Surf. Why, as to reforming, sir Peter, 
I'll make no promises, and that I take to be a 
proof that I intend to set about it. But here shall 
be my monitor — my gentle guide — ah ! can I leave 
the virtuous path those eyes illumine ? 

Though thou, dear maid, shouldst waive thy beauty's 



Thou still must rule, because I will obey : 
An humble fugitive from folly view, 
No sanctuary near but love and you ; 

[To the audience. 
You can, indeed, each anxious fear remove, 
For even Scandal dies if you approve. 

[Exeunt omnes. 



EPILOGUE, 
BY MR, COLMAN. 



SPOKEN BY LADY TEAZLE. 



I, who was late so volatile and gay, 

Like a trade-wind must now blow all one way, 

Bend all my cares, my studies, and my vows, 

To one dull rusty weathercock — my spouse ! 

So wills our virtuous bard — the motley Bayes 

Of crying epilogues and laughing plays ! 

Old bachelors, who marry smart young wives, 

Learn from our play to regulate your lives : 

Each bring his dear to town, all faults upon her — 

London will prove the very source of honour. 

Plunged fairly in, like a cold bath it serves, 

When principles relax, to brace the nerves : 

Such is my case ; and yet I must deplore 

That the gay dream of dissipation's o'er. 

And say, ye fair, was ever lively wife, 

Born with a genius for the highest life, 

Like me untimely blasted in her bloom, 

Like me condemn'd to such a dismal doom ? 

Save money — when I just knew how to waste it ! 

Leave London — just as I began to taste it ! 

Must I then watch the early crowing cock, 
The melancholy ticking of a clock ; 
In a lone rustic hall for ever pounded, 
With dogs, cats, rats, and squalling brats sur- 
rounded ? 
With humble curate can I now retire, 
(While good sir Peter boozes with the squire,) ■ 



And at backgammon mortify my soul, 
That pants for loo, or flutters at a vole ? 
Seven's the main ! Dear sound that must expire, 
Lost at hot cockles round a Christmas fire ! 
The transient hour of fashion too soon spent, 
Farewell the tranquil mind, farewell content ! 
Farewell the plumed head, the cushion'd tete, 
That takes the cushion from its proper seat i 
The spirit-stirring drum ! card drums I mean, 
Spadille — odd trick — pam — basto — king and 

queen ! 
And you, ye knockers, that, with brazen throat, 
The welcome visiters' approach denote ; 
Farewell all quality of high renown, 
Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious town ! 
Farewell ! your revels I partake no more, 
And lady Teazle's occupation's o'er ! 
All this I told our bard ; he smiled, and said 'twas 

clear, 
I ought to play deep tragedy next year. 
Meanwhile he drew wise morals from his play, 
And in these solemn periods stalk'd away : — 
" Bless'd were the fair like you ; her faults who 

stopp'd, 
And closed her follies when the curtain dropp'd » 
No more in vice or error to engage, 
Or play the fool at large on life's great stage." 



THE CAMP. 



a J&ttsttal IBntertamment. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS, 

AS ORIGINALLY ACTED AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE IN 1778. 



Sir Harry Bouquet . . . Mr. Bodd. 

Gage Mr. Parsons. 

O'Daue Mr. Moody. 

Serjeant Drill Mr. Bannister. 

William Mr. Webster. 

Bouillard Mr. Baddeley. 

Robin 



Lady Sash Miss Far r en. 



Lady Plume Mrs. Robinson. 

Lady Gorget Mrs. Cuyler. 

Nell Mrs. Wrightcn. 

Nancy Miss Walpole. 

Miss 

Officers, Recruits, Drummer, Countrymen, 
Countrywomen, &c. 



SCENE,— Coxheath. 



PROLOGUE. 



WRITTEN by rtchard TICKELL, esq. 



The stage is still the mirror of the day, 
Where fashion's forms in bright succession play : 
True to its end, what image can it yield, 
In times like these, but the embattled field ? 
What juster semblance than the glittering plains 
Of village warriors, and heroic swains ! 
Invasions, battles, now fill rumour's breath, 
From camp to fleets, from Plymouth to Coxheath. 
Through every rank some panic terrors spread, 
And each in various phrase express their dread. 
At 'Change, no vulgar patriot passions fright 
The firm and philosophic — Israelite ! 
Ask him his hopes, " 'Tis all de same to me ! 
I fix my wishes by my policy. 
I'll do you Keppel ; or increase de Barters." 
You will, "I'll underwrite de due de Chartres." 
Miss Tittup, gasping from her stiff French stays, 
" Why if these French should come, we'll have 

French plays : 
Upon my word I wish'these wars would cease !" 
Settling her tucker, while she sighs for peace. 
With wilder throbs the glutton's bosom beats, 
Anxious and trembling for West India fleets : 
Sir Gobble Greenfat felt, in pangs of death, 
The ruling passion taint his parting breath : 



Search in the latest as in all the past, 

" Oh ! save my turtle, Keppel !" was his last. 

No pang like this the macaroni racks, 

Calmly he dates the downfall of Almack's^ 

" As Gad's my judge, I shall be glad to see 

Our Paris friends here — for variety. 

The clubs are poor ; let them their Louis bring, 

The invasion would be rather a good thing." 

Perish such fears ! what can our arms oppose, 

When female warriors join our martial beaux ? 

Fierce from the toilet the plumed bands appear ; 

Miss struts a major, ma'am a brigadier : 

A spruce Bonduca simpers in the rear. 

Unusual watch her femmes-de-chambre keep ; 

Militia phantoms haunt her in her sleep : 

She starts, she wakes, she quivers, kneels and 

prays. 
" Side-saddle my horse ! ah, lace my stays ! 
Soft, 'twas but a dream ! my fears are vain, 
And lady Minikin's herself again." 
Yet hold, nor let false ridicule profane 
These fair associates of the embattled plain : 
Victorious wreaths their efforts justly claim, 
Whose praise is triumph, and whose smiles are 

fame. 



THE CAMP. 



109 



ACT I. 



SCENE I. — The Road near the Camp. 
Enter Old Man. 
Old Man. Come along, neighbours, come along ; 
we shall be too late for the suttlers' market. 

Enter Second Man. 

2 Man. Put on, put on, neighbours. — Here, 
Robin, where are you, boy ? 

Rob. [Without.'] I'm coming, feather, as soon 
as I can get the colt up ; for the plaguy beast is 
down again, and mother and chickens are all in 
the slough. 

Old Man. Why, is the colt down again ? — You 
graceless dog, help your mother up. — Oh, neigh- 
bour Farrow has helped her up, I see. 

Enter Old Woman. 

Old Worn. Husband, as sure as you are alive, 
that rogue of a boy drove the colt in the dirt for 
the purpose, and down we came with such a 



Old Man. What a mercy it is the chickens 
! — Come, put on, neighbours. 

Enter Robin and Colt. 

Rob. Why, feather, how could I help it ?— The 
colt has not had an eye in his head these eight 
years. 

Old Worn. Oh, here comes our kinswoman and 
her daughter — 

Enter Miss. 

Bless me, child ! you are in such a heat, you'll 
quite spoil your complexion. 

Miss. Lord, neighbours, you hurry one so ! 

2 Worn. Put on, put on ; — make haste, we shall 
be too late. — O dear, here comes Nell ; and she'll 
scold us all for cheating the soldiers. 

3 Worn. Damn that wench ! she won't cheat 
herself, nor let other honest people do it, if she can 
help it ; and she says she likes a soldier so well 
she would sell them goods for nothing. 

2 Man. Come, neighbours, now we shall see 
what bargains your daughter will make at the 
camp. 

2 Worn. Ay, ay, soldiers are testy customers : 
they won't buy of the ugly ones. — Oh, here Nell 
comes. 

Enter Nbll. 

Nell. Why, how now ? what you are consulting 
how you shall cheat the poor soldiers ! For shame ! 
for shame ! how can ■ you use the poor fellows so ? 
a parcel of unfeeling wretches ! — Poor fellows, that 
risk their lives to defend your property, and yet 
you make it your study to defraud them. 

Old Worn. It's very hard, Nell, you won't let 
us have a little picking among 'em. — What is it to 
you what we do ? 

Nell. Yes, it is to me ; I never will bear to see 
a soldier cheated, with my eyes open. I love a 
soldier, and will always stand by them. 

Miss. Mind your own business, Nell. 



Nell. What's that you say, Miss Minx ? — 
Here's a wench dressed out : the poor soldiers are 
forced to pay for all this finery, you impudent slut 
you ! 

2 Man. Why, Nell, if you go on at this rate 
we'll tell his worship, Mr. Gage, of you : he's an 
exciseman, and a great friend to us poor folks. 

Nell. What's that you say, master Grinder? 
Come forward, you sneaking, snivelling sot you ! 
— I think your tricks are pretty well known — 
Wasn't you caught soaking eggs in lime and water 
to make them pass for new ones ? and did not you 
sit in the stocks for robbing the 'squire's rookery 
to make your pigeon pies ? 

2 Worn. Well, well, we'll tell Mr. Gage, and 
then what will he say to you ? 

Nell. Tell Mr. Gage, will you ! — he's a pretty 
protector indeed ; he's a disgrace to his Majesty's 
inkhorn— while he seizes with one hand, he smug- 
gles with the other. Why, no longer ago than last 
summer, he was a broken attorney at Rochester, 
and came down here, and bought this place with 
his vote, and now he is both a smuggler and con- 
tractor. O' my conscience, if I had the manage- 
ment of affairs, I would severely punish all such 
fellows who would be so base as to cheat a poor 
soldier. 

2 Worn. If his worship was here, you dare not 
say so. — Here he comes, here he comes ! — Now 
you'll change your note. 

Nell. Will I ! — you shall see if I do. No, no ; 
I'll tell him my mind : that's always my way. 

Enter Gage. 

All. Ah, Mr. Gage. 

Gage. Heyday ! what's the matter ? What the 
plague, is there a civil war broke out among you ? 

1 Worn. Why, Mr. Gage, Nell here has been 
scolding us for cheating the soldiers. 

2 Worn. Yes, and says you encourage us in it. 
Gage. Encourage you ! to be sure I do, in the 

way of trade. 

All. Ay, in the way of trade. 

1 Worn. Yes, and she has been rating the poor 
girl, and says I dress her up thus only to make the 
better bargains. 

Gage. And ecod you are in the right of it ; your 
mother is a sensible old woman. Well said, dame ; 
put plenty in your baskets, and sell your wares at 
the sign of your daughter's face. 

1 Worn. Ay, ay, so I say. 

Gage. Right — soldiers are testy customers, and 
this is the market where the prettiest will always 
make the best bargains. 

All. Very true, very true ! 

Gage. To be sure — I hate to see an awkward 
gawky come sneaking into the market, with her 
damned half-price countenance, and is never able 
to get scarce double the value of her best goods. 

Nell. I can hold no longer ! — Are you not 
ashamed, you who are a contractor, and has the 
honour to carry his Majesty's inkhorn at your 
button-hole, to teach these poor wretches all your 



110 



THE CAMP. 



court tricks ? — I'll tell you what— if I was to sit 
on a court-martial against such a fellow as you, 
you should have your deserts, from the pilfering 
suttler to the head contractor ; you should have 
the cat o' nine tails, and he forced to run the 
gauntlet, from Coxheath to Warley Common, that 
you should. 

1 Man. How durst you talk so saucily to his 
worship ? 

Nell. Hold your tongue, or I'll throttle you, 
you sheep-biter. {Collaring him, 

1 Man. O Lord, your worship ! if you don't 
put her under an arrest, she'll choke me. 

Gage. [Aside to Nell.] Come, Nell, hold your 
tongue, and I'll give you a pound of smuggled 
hyson, and throw you a silk handkerchief into the 
bargain. 

Nell. Here's a rogue ! — Bear witness, neigh- 
bours, he has offered me a bribe ; — a pound of tea. 
— No, sir, take your pitiful present, and know that 
I am not to be bribed to screen your villanies by 
influence and corruption. [Tfir.ows it at Mm. 

Gage. Don't mind her ; she's mad, she talks 
treason. Away with you ! — I'll put everybody 
under an arrest that stays to listen to her. 

All. Ay, ay, she's mad. — Come along ; we 
shall be too late for market. 

[Gage drives them all off. 

Gage. Here, Nell, will you take the tea ? 

[Offers it to her. 

Nell. No, sir, I won't. 

Gage. Well, then, I will. [Futs it in Ms pocket. 



AIR. 



Nell. 



Now coaxing, caressing, 

Now wheedling, distressing, 
As fortune delights to exalt or confound, 

Her smile or her frown 

Sets them up, knocks them down, 
Turning, turning, turning as the wheel goes round. 

O fy, Mr. Gage ! 

Quit the tricks of the age ; 
Scorn the slaves that to fortune, false fortune, are bound, 

Their cringes and bows, 

Protections and vows, 
Turning, turning, &c. [Exit. 

Gage. Foolish girl, not to accept a bribe, and 
follow the example of her betters ! — But who have 
we here ? 

Enter O'Daub. 

O'Daub. Ah, my little Gage ! — to be sure I am 
not in luck ; I will not want an interpreter to show 
me the views about here ? — and by my shoul, I'll 
force you to accept my offer. 

Gage. Why, what's your errand ? 

O Daub. Why, upon my conscience, a very 
dangerous one — Jack the Painter's job was a fool 
to it : — I am come to take the camp. 

Gage. The devil you are ! 

O'Daub. Ay, and must bring it away with me 
in my pocket too. 

Gage. Indeed ! 

O'Daub. Ay,, here's my military chest ; these 
are my colours, you know. 

Gage. Oh, I guess your errand. 

O'Daub. Then, faith, it's a very foolish one. 
You must know, I got so much credit at the fete 
champetre there, that little Roscius recommended 
me to the managers of Drury-lane, and so now 



I am a sort of deputy superintendant under Mr. 
Lanternberg, the great painter ; that as soon as 
he executes a thing, I always design it after him, 
my jewel ; so I'm going to take a side front view 
of it. 

Gage. What then, they are going to introduce 
the camp on the stage, I suppose ? 

O'Daub. To be sure you have hit it — Coxheath 
by candle-light, my jewel. 

Gage. And will that answer ? 

O'Daub. Oh, to be sure it will answer, when a 
jontleman can have a warm seat, and see the whole 
tote of it for two thirteens, and be comfortable into 
the bargain. — Why it has cost me above three 
guineas already, and I came the cheapest way too ; 
for three of us went halves in the Maidstone Dilly, 
my dear. 

Gage. Well, and how do you like the prospect ? 

O'Daub. Upon my shoul, my jewel, I don't 
know what to make on't, so I am come to be a 
little farther off, that I may have a nearer view of 
it. I think it looks like my cousin O'Doiley's great 
bleach-yard in the county of Antrim. — [Bouil- 
lard sings without. ] Tunder and wounds ! what 
outlandish creature is this coming here ? 

Gage. Oh, that is monsieur Bouillard, the 
suttler. 

O'Daub. Then perhaps he can help me to a 
bit of something to eat, for I feel a sort of craving 
in my stomach after my journey. 

Gage. Why, he's a very honest fellow, and will 
be happy in obliging you — Oh, here he comes. 

Enter Bouillard. 

Bouil. Ah ! begar, monsieur Gage, I am glad I 
have found you : begar, I have been through Berk- 
shire, Suffolk, and Yorkshire, and could not find 
you. 

O'Daub. Through Berkshire, Suffolk, and York- 
shire ! — What the devil does he mean ? 

Gage. Oh, he means through the regiments. 

Bouil. Begar, monsieur Gage, I must depend on 
you for supply. I have got one, two, tree brigade 
dinners bespoke, besides the fat alderman and his 
lady from London. 

Gage. Then you must send out a party of cooks 
to forage at Maidstone. 

Bouil. Parbleu, monsieur Gage, I must look to 
you ; for begar, I have got nothing in de house to 
eat. 

O'Daub. Then the devil burn me if I come to 
dine with you, honey ! 

Bouil. Oh, sire, I have got everyting for you 
and monsieur Gage. You shall have anyting you 
like in von moment ! 

O'Daub. Ah. ha! I tank you, honey. But 
pray now, Mr. Blaud, if your own countrymen 
were to come over here, would not you be a little 
puzzled to know which side to be on ? 

Bouil. Puzzled ! — parbleu, monsieur, I do assure 
you I love de English ver well, and vill never leave 
dem vile dey are victorious ; and I do love mine 
own countrymen very well ; but depend on it, 
monsieur Gage, I vill always stay with de strongest. 

Gage. You see, Mr. O'Daub, my friend, mon- 
sieur Bouillard, is divested of all national prejudice, 
I assure you. 

Bouil. Prejudice ! — begar, I have too much 
honour ever to leave de English while dey do vin 
de battle. But, monsieur Gage, vill you bring your 



SCENE II. 



THE CAMP. 



Ill 



friend, and taste my vine ? £ have got everyting 
for you and your friend. I assure you, monsieur 
Gage, I vill never forsake de English, so long as 
dey are victorious ; but if mine own countrymen 
were to come and make de English run, I would 
run a little way with dem ; and if mine own coun- 
trymen were likely to overtake dem, I would stop 
short, bow to dem, and say, How do you do, my 
ver good countrymen ? Begar, I shall be ver glad 
to see you both ; so come along — but depend on 
mine honour, monsieur Gage, I vill never leave de 
English vile dey do vin de battle. — No, never, 
never ! {Exit singing. 

Gage. Well said, monsieur Bouillard ! 

O'Daub. Your sarvant, Mr. Blaud ! though, 
faith, to do him justice, he has forgot the fashion 
of his country ; for when he is determined to be a 
rogue he is honest enough to own it. But pray, 
what connexion have you with the suttlers ? You 
are no victualler here, are you ? 

Gage. Not absolutely a victualler, but I deal in 
various articles. 

O'Daub. Indeed! 

Gage. Yes, but business is done here only by 
contract. 

O'Daub. A contractor ! why, what the devil, 
you are not risen to such preferment as that sure ? 
I never knew you was able to furnish any contract. 

Gage. Nothing more easy ; the circumstance 
depends upon the quantity, not the quality. I got 
on very well lately, but at first it brought me in 
several confounded scrapes. 

0"Daub. As how ? 

Gage. Why, I undertook to serve a regiment 
with hair powder. 

O'Daub. Hair powder ! What, and you sent 
them flour, I suppose ? 

Gage. Flour, no, no — I should have saved 
nothing by that : I went to the fountain head — the 
pit, and gave them a plentiful stock of lime. 

O'Daub. Lime ! brick and mortar lime ? 

Gage. Yes, brick and mortar lime. 

O'Daub. And, what the plague, was not the 
cheat found out ? 

Gage. Why at first it answered the purpose 
very well : while the weather was fine it did charm- 
ingly ; but one field-day they were all caught in a 
fine soaking shower : the smoke ran along the lines ; 
ecod their heads were all slacked in an instant, and 
by the time they returned to the camp, damme if 
all their heads were not as smooth as an old half- 
crown ! 

O'Daub. A very cross accident indeed ! 

Gage. Yes, I stood a near chance of being tied 
up to the halberts ; but I excused myself by saying 
they looked only like raw recruits before, but now 
they appeared like old veterans of service. 

O'Daub. But you lost your contract, I suppose ? 

Gage. Yes, but I soon got another ; a shaving 
contract to a company of grenadiers. 

O'Daub. 'Faith, 1 never knew you practised that 
business. 

Gage. Never handled a razor in all my life : I 
shave by deputy ; hired Sam Sickle down from 
London — an excellent hand ! handles a razor like 
a scythe : — he'll mow you down a regiment of 
beards in the beating a reveille. 

O'Daub. Upon my conscience, a pretty way this 
of working at second-hand ! I wish myself could 
do a little by proxy. 



Gage. But come, what say you for something 
to eat, and a glass of my friend Bouillard's wine, 
and drink his majesty's health ? 

O' Daub. With all my heart, my dear, and to 
the two camps, if you will. 

Gage. Two ! what two do you mean ? 

O'Daub. Why, the one at Coxheath, and the 
other at Drury-lane. [Exeunt. 



SCENE II A Grove near the Camp. 

Enter Two Countrymen. 

1 Coun. I tell you I will certainly list ; I ha' 
made up my mind on't. 

2 Coun. Well, well, I'll say no more. 

1 Coun. Besides, the camp lies so convenient, I 
mayn't have such another opportunity. 

2 Coun. Why, it's main jolly to be sure, and all 
that so fair. Now, if I were to list, I should like 
hugely to belong to a regiment of horse, and here 
is one of the grandest troop com'd lately. I see'd 
two of the officers, mighty delicate-looking gentle- 
men ; they were dressed quite different from the 
others : their jackets, indeed, are pretty much the 
same ; but then they wear a sort of petticoat, 
as 'twere, with a large hat and feather, and a mortal 
sight of hair. I suppose now they are some of 
your outlandish troops ; your foreign Hessians, or 
such like. 

1 Coun. Ay, like enough. Here comes the 
serjeant. Ecod, he can sing louder than his own 
drum. Zooks ! see how brave they march. Well, 
walking is a mighty dull way of going, after all. 

Enter Serjeant Drill, Drummer, Recruits, &c. 
SONG. 

Drill. Great Cassar, once renown'd in fame, 
For a mighty arm, and a laurel brow, 

With his veni, vidi, vici, came, 
And he conquer'd the world with his row, dow, do w. 
Chorus. Row, dow, dow ; row, dow, dow ; 
And he conquer'd the world, &c. 

Then should our vaunting enemies come, 
And winds and waves their cause allow, 

By freedom's flag we'll beat our drum, 
And they'll fly from the sound of our row, dow, dow. 
Row, dow; dow, &c. 

Then come, my lads, our bounty share, 
While honest hearts British valour avow ; 

In freedom's cause to camp repair, 
And follow the beat of my row, dow, dow. 
Row, dow, dow, &c. 

Drill. Come, my lads, now is your time to serve 
the king, and make men of yourselves : well, my 
lad, what do you say ? 

2 Coun. I canno' leave my farm. 

Drill. Your farm ! — what, would you plough 
and sow for the hungry Frenchmen to come and 
reap ? Come, my lads ! let your fields he fallow 
this year, and I'll ensure you double crops ever 
after. Why now, here's a fellow made for a 
soldier : there's a leg for a spatterdash, with an 
eye like the king of Prussia. 

1 Coun. Ay, but, serjeant, I hanna' the air. 

Drill. The air,^ oh, we'll soon learn you that. 
Why now, here's little Ralph ; there's a fellow 



112 



THE CAMP. 



ACT 



for you : he has not heen listed a fortnight, and 
see what a presence — there's dignity ! Oh, there 
is nothing like the drill for grace ! 

1 Court. Serjeant, I'm your man. 

2 Coun. And so am I. 

Drill. That's right, my lads ! this is much bet- 
ter than to be dragged away like a slave, or be 
scratched off the church door for the militia. 
Now you have present pay, and the bounty-money 
into the bargain. But come, my lads, let me ask 
you a few questions, and then the business is done. 

TRIO. 

Brill. Yet ere you're permitted to list with me. 

Answer me straight twice questions three. 
1 Coun. No lies, master Serjeant, we'll tell unto you ; 

For though we he poor lads, we're honest and true. 
Drill. First, can you drink well ? 

1 Court. Cheerly, cheerly. 
Drill. Each man a gallon ? 

2 Coun. Nearly, nearly. 

Drill. Love a sweet wench too ? 

Both. Dearly, dearly. 

Drill. The answer is honest, bold, and fair ; 

So drink to the king, for his soldiers you are. 
Chorus. The answer is honest, &c. 

Drill. When bullets are whizzing around your head, 
You'll boldly march on wherever you're led ? 

2 Coun. To death we'll rush forward without delay, 

If, good master Serjeant, you'll show us the way. 

Drill. Next, can you swear well ? 

2 Coun. Bluffly, bluffly. 

Drill. Handle a Frenchman ? 

1 Coun. Roughly, roughly. 

Drill. Frown at a cannon ? 

Both. Gruffly, gruffly. 

Drill. The answers are honest, bold, and fair ; 

So drink to the king, for his soldiers you are. 

Chorus. The answers are honest, &c. 

Huzza! huzza! huzza! 

Enter Nell. 

Nell. Well said, my lads ! I am glad to see so 
many good hearts in the country. — Oh, but was 
not you saying one of your recruits knows me ? 

Drill. Oh yes, Nell, a lad from Suffolk 

Hark ye, where's the Suffolk boy, as we call him ? 
Oh, here he comes i 

Enter Nancy, in uniform. 

Nan. Ah, serjeant, did you not begin to think 
you had lost me ? But come, will you leave me 
a few minutes with Nelly ? 

Drill. With all my heart. — Come, my lads, 
let's to the Heart of Oak, where we'll drink his 
majesty's health. 

[Exit singing, Countrymen, &c. following. 

Nan. Why, Nelly, don't you know me ? 

Nell. Know you ! egad, I do not know whether 
I do or not — sure it can't be — and yet, sure it is 
Nancy Granger ? 

Nan. It is her, my dear Nelly, who kisses you 
now with the truest sense of gratitude for your 
former kindness and friendship. 

Nell. My dear girl ! — Odso ! I must take care 
of my reputation. — But what in the name of fancy 
brings you here, and in this dress, child ? 

Nan. How can you ask me that question, 
Nelly ? You are no stranger to the love William 
and I have for each other : a few days would have 
united us for ever, had not cruel fate separated us ; 



the regiment being ordered to march immediately, 
no resource was then left but my flying from my 
father's house : I procured a dress from one of our 
neighbour's sons, and that love which induced me 
to forsake my sex still supports me under every 
affliction. Fortunately, on my way, I met the 
serjeant, and after some entreaty was enlisted, and 
equipped as you see. What think you, Nell, does 
not my dress become me ? 

Nell. Yes, indeed, I think you make a smart 
little soldier. 

Nan. Why, indeed I am rather under size ; but 
I fancy in action I could do more real execution 
than those who look bigger, and talk louder. But 
tell me, my dear Nelly, where is William ? I long 
to see him : does he ever speak of his poor Nancy ? 
sure he cannot be faithless. 

Nell. Why, really, Nancy, I have some doubts. 

Nan. Heavens ! is it possible ? 

Nell. Ah, my poor little soldier, I only did it 
to try your affection. Your William is true, and 
worthy of your love. 

Nan. You have made a greater shock on my 
spirits, than even an army of Frenchmen could 
have done. 

Am. 

When war's alarms enticed my Willy from me, 

My poor heart with grief did sigh : 
Each fond remembrance brought fresh sorrow on me ; 
I waked ere yet the morn was nigh. 

No other could delight him ; 

Ah ! why did I e'er slight him, 
Coldly answering his fond tale ? 

Which drove him far, 

Amid the rage of war, 
And left silly me thus to bewail. 

But I no longer, though a maid forsaken, 

Thus will mourn like yonder dove ; 
For ere the lark to-morrow shall awaken, 
I will seek my absent love : 

The hostile country over, 

I'll fly to seek my lover, 
Scorning every threatening fear : 

Nor distant shore, 

Nor cannons' roar, 
Shall longer keep me from my dear. 

Nell. But, my dear girl, consider ; do you 
think you can cheerfully go through the toil and 
fatigue, and not repine after your own happy 
situation you left behind you ? 

Nan. O no ; I still must love, though I should 
regret the occasion of our difficulties. 

Nell. Difficulty ! why then, marry him at the 
drum-head, and that will end all your difficulties. 

AIR. 

What can our wisest heads provide, 
For the child we dote on dearly, 

But a merry soul, and an honest heart 
In a lad who loves her dearly ? 

Who with kisses and chat, 

And all, all that, 
Will soothe him late and early : 

If the truth she tell, 

When she knows him well, 
She'll swear she loves him dearly. 

Let the prude at the name or sight of man 
Pretend to rail severely ; 

But, alack-a-day ! unseen she'll play 
With the lad who loves her dearly. 



SCENE II. 



THE CAMP. 



113 



Say old men whate'er they will, 

Tisalover still 
Makes day and night roll cheerly : 

What makes our May 

All holiday, 
But the lad we dote on dearly ? 

Well, my dear Nancy, you must endeavour to throw 
off that dress as soon as possible. I'll tell you 
what, — here are some ladies in the camp, who 
condescend to notice me ; I'll endeavour to intro- 
duce you to them, and they maybe of great service 
to you ; in the mean time, should you by chance 
meet with William, be sure you don't discover 
yourself. — Hush ! here is the serjeant. 

Re-enter Serjeant Drill. 

Drill. Why, Nelly, how's this ? you have had a 
long conversation together. I began to think you 
had run away with my new recruit. 

Nell. Oh, there's no great danger, serjeant ; 



he's no soldier for me : pray, is he perfect in His 
exercise ? 

Drill. Oh, as handy a lad as ever was ! — Come, 
youngster, convince her. 

[Nancy goes through the exercise. 

Nell. Very well, indeed ! but, serjeant, I must 
beg of you to befriend him as much as you can, 
for my sake. 

Drill. Any service in my power you may com- 
mand; but a soldier's life is not the easiest in the 
world, so they ough+ to befriend each other. 

TRIO. 

O the joy ! when the trumpets sound, 

And the march heats around, 
When the steed tears the ground, 

And shouts to the skies resound ! 
On glittering arms the sunbeams playing, 

Heighten the soldier's charms : 
The fife and the roll of the distant drum, 

Cry hark ! the enemy come ! 
To arms ! the attack's begun. [Exeunt. 



ACT II. 



SCENE I.— A Grove near the Camp. 

Enter Nell, speaking without. 

Nell. William ! come to speak to him another 
time. — Sure nothing could be more lucky : how- 
ever, I must obey their ladyships' instructions, 
and keep him in ignorance, that they may be pre- 
sent at the discovery. Poor fellow ! it's almost a 
pity too, when one has it in one's power to make 
him so happy. 

Enter William. 

Will. I am sorry, Nell, to make you wait ; but it 
was an old friend. 

Nell. Ay, ay, some one from Suffolk, I suppose, 
who has brought you news of your dear Nancy. 

Will. I wish it had : it's unaccountable that I 
don't hear from her. 

Nell. Unaccountable ! not at all : I suppose she 
has changed her mind. 

Will. No, Nelly, that's impossible ; and you 
would think so had you heard how she plighted her 
faith to me, and vowed, notwithstanding her parents 
were my enemies, nothing but death should pre- 
vent our union. 

Nell. Oh, I beg your pardon: if her father 
and mother indeed are against you, you need not 
doubt her constancy. But come, don't be melan- 
choly. I tell you I want to have you stay some- 
where near the inn, and perhaps I may bring you 
some intelligence of her. 

Will. How! dear Nell? 

Nell. Though indeed I think you are very fool- 
ish to plague yourself so ; for even had Nancy 
loved you well enough to have carried your knap- 
sack, you would have been very imprudent to have 
suffered her. 

Will. Ay, but prudence, you know, is not a sol- 
dier's virtue. It's our business to hold life itself 
cheap, much more the comforts of it. Show me a 
young fellow in our regiment, who, if he gains the 
heart of a worthy girl, is afraid to marry her for 



want of a little wealth, and I would have him 
drummed out of the regiment for discretion. 

Nell. Very fine ! but must not the poor girl share 
in all your fatigues and mishaps ? 

Will. There, Nell, I own is the objection ; but 
tenderness and affection may soften even these ; 
yet, if my Nancy ever makes the trial, though 1 
may not be able to prevent her from undergoing 
hardships, I am sure my affection will make her 
wonder at their being called so. I wish I could 
once boast that the experiment was made. 

AIR. 

My Nancy quits the rural train 

A camp's distress to prove ; 
All other ills she can sustain 

But living from her love : 
Yet, dearest, though your soldier's there, 

Would not your spirits fail, 
To mark the hardships you must share, 

Dear Nancy of the dale ? 

Or should you, love, each danger scorn, 

Ah ! how shall I secure 
Your health, 'mid toils which you were born 

To soothe, but not endure ? 
A thousand perils I must view, 

A thousand ills assail ; 
Nor must I tremble e'en for you, 

Dear Nancy of the dale. {Exeunt. 



SCENE II. — An open View near the Camp. 

Enter O'Daub. 

O'Daub. Well, to be sure, this same camp is a 
pretty place, with their drums and their fifes, and 
their gigs, and theirmarches, and their ladies in regi- 
mentals ! Upon my conscience, I believe they'd 
form a troop of side-saddle cavalry if there were 
any hopes of an invasion. But now I am alone by 
myself, 'tis time I should be after taking my plan ; 
and here I see are some of my directions for it. — 
I 



114 



THE CAMP. 



[Pulls out a pocket-book and pencil.] I can't 
think what it is makes my hand shake so, unless it 
is Mr. Blaud's wine that is got into my head. So, 
so ! let me study my orders a little, for I am not 
used to this business. — O. P. and P. S. — Who the 
devil is to understand that ? Oh, here is the ex- 
planation : P. S. the prompter's side, and O. P. 
opposite the prompter. So, I'm to mark down the 
view as it is to be taken on one side, and the other. 
Very well : P. S. and O. P. Let me see. Some- 
where hereabout is certainly the best point to take 
it from. [Retires. 

Enter Serjeant Drill and the Two Countrymen. 

1 Coun. There, you rogues, there he is ! 

2 Coun. Ay, ay, that's him, sure enough : I 
have seen him skulking about these two days ; if 
he ben't a spy I'll suffer hanging. 

Drill. He certainly must be a spy, by his draw- 
ing figures. 

2 Coun. Do seize on him, or the whole camp 
may be blown up before we are aware. 

O' Daub. Prompter's side. 

Drill. Hush ! — we shall convict him out of his 
own mouth. 

O'Daub. O yes, the star and garter must cer- 
tainly be P. S. 

Drill. P. S. What the devil does he say ? 

2 Coun. Treason, you may be sure, by your not 
understanding him. 

O'Daub. And then O. P. will have the ad- 
vantage. 

Drill O. P. that's the Old Pretender.— A 
damned Jacobite spy, my life on't ! 

1 Coun. And P. S. is Prince Charles, I suppose. 
Drill. No, you fool ! P. S. is the pretender's 

son. 

2 Coun. Ay, ay, like enough. 

O'Daub. Memorandum — the officers' tents are 
in the rear of the line. 
2 Coun. Mark that ! 
Cf Daub. N. B. the generals' tents are all houses. 

1 Coun. Remember that ! 

O'Daub. Then the park of artillery ; — I shall 
never make anything of that. — Oh ! the devil burn 
the park of artillery ! 

Drill. There's a villain ! he'll burn the park of 
artillery, will he ? 

O'Daub. Well, faith ! this camp is easier taken 
than I thought it was. 

Drill. Is it so, you rogue ? but you shall find 
the difference on't. — Oh, what a providential dis- 
covery. 

O'Daub. To be sure the people will" like it 
much, and in the course of the winter it may sur- 
prise his majesty. 

Drill, O the villain ! seize him directly. — Fellow, 
you are a dead man if you stir ! — We seize you, 
sir, as a spy. 

O'Daub. A spy ! — Phoo, phoo ! get about your 
business ! 

Drill. Bind him, and blindfold him if he resists. 

2 Coun. Ay, blindfold him for certain, and 
search him too : I dare say his pockets are crowded 
with powder, matches, and tinder-boxes, at every 
corner. 

O'Daub. Tunder and ouns ! what do you mean ? 
1 Coun. Hold him fast. 

O'Daub. Why here's some ladies coming, who 
know me. — Here's lady Sarah Sash, and lady 



Plume, who were at the fete-champetre, and will 
give me a good character. 

Drill. Why, villain, your papers have proved 
you a spy, and sent by the old pretender. 

O'Daub. O Lord ! O Lord 1 I never saw the old 
gentleman in all my life. 

Drill. Why, you dog, didn't you say the camp 
was easier taken than you thought it was ? 

2 Coun. Ay, deny that. 

Drill. And that you would burn the artillery, 
and surprise his majesty ? — So, come, you had 
better confess before you are hanged. 

O'Daub. Hanged for a spy ! — Oh, to be sure, 
myself is got into a pretty scrape ! 

Drill. Bring him away ; but blindfold him : the 
dog shall see no more. 

O'Daub. I'll tell you what, Mr. Soldier, or Mr. 
Serjeant, or what the devil's your name, upon my 
conscience and soul I'm nothing at all but an Irish 
painter, employed by monsieur Lanternburg. 

Drill. There, he has confessed himself a fo- 
reigner, and employed by marshal Leatherbag. 

2 Coun. Oh, he'll be convicted by his tongue. 
You may swear he is a foreigner by his lingo. 

1 Coun. Bring him away. I long to see him 
hanging. 

O'Daub. Tunder and wounds S if I am hanged, 
what will become of the theatre, and the ma- 
nagers ; and the devil fly away with you all together, 
for a parcel of red blackguards ! [They hurry him off 



SCENE III— Part of the Camp. 
Enter Lady Gorget, Lady Sash, and Lady Plume. 

Lady Plume. Oh, my dear lady Sash, indeed you 
are too severe; and I'm sure if lady Gorget had 
been here she would have been of my opinion. 

Lady Sash. Not in the least. 

Lady Plume. You must know, she has been 
rallying my poor brother, sir Harry Bouquet, for 
not being in the militia, and so ill-naturedly ! 

Lady Sash. So he should indeed ; but all I said 
was, he looked so French and so finical, that I 
thought he ran a risk of being mistaken for another 
female chevalier. 

Lady Plume. Yet, you must confess that our 
situation is open to a little raillery : a few ele- 
gances of accommodation are considerably wanting, 
though one's toilet, as sir Harry says, is not abso- 
lutely spread on a drumhead. 

Lady Sash. He vows there is an eternal con- 
fusion between stores military and millinery ; such 
a description he gives ! On one shelf, cartridges 
and cosmetics, pouches and patches ; here a stand 
of arms, there a file of black pins ; in one drawer, 
bullet-moulds and essence- bottles, pistols and twee- 
zer-cases, with battle-powder mixed with mare- 
chelle. 

Lady Gor. Oh, the malicious creature ! 

Lady Plume. But pray, lady Sash, don't renew 
it ; for see, here comes sir Harry to join us. 

Enter Sir Harry Bouquet. 

Sir Har. Now, lady Sash, I beg a truce. — Lady 
Gorget, I am rejoiced to see you at this delectable 
spot. — Where, lady Plume, you may be amused 
with such a dismal variety ! 

Lady Gor. You see, lady Plume, he perseveres. 



SCENE III. 



THE CAMP. 



115' 



Lady Sash. I assure you, sir Harry, I should 
have been against you in your raillery. 

Sir Har. Now, as Gad's my judge, I admire 
the place ! — here's all the pride, pomp, and cir- 
cumstance of glorious war ! — Mars in a vis-a-vis, 
and Bellona giving afete-champetre. 

Lady Plume. But now, seriously, brother, what 
can make you judge so indifferently of the camp 
from anybody else ? 

Sir Har. Why, seriously, then, I think it the 
worst planned thing I ever beheld. For instance 
now, the tents are all ranged in a straight line : 
now, lady Gorget, can anything be worse than a 
straight line ? — and is not there a horrid uniformity 
in their infinite vista of canvas ? — no curve, no 
break, and the avenue of marquees abominable ! 

Lady Sash. Oh, to be sure ! a circus or a cre- 
scent would have been vastly better. 

Lady dor. What a pity sir Harry was not con- 
sulted ! 

Sir Har. As Gad's my judge, I think so ; for 
there is great capability in the ground. 

Lady Sash. A. camp cognoscenti ! Positively, 
sir Harry, we will have you publish a treatise on 
military virtue. 

Sir Har. Very well ! But how will you excuse 
this ? the officers' tents are close to the common 
soldiers'. What an arrangement is that now ! If 
I might have advised, there certainly should have 
been one part for the canaille, and the west end of 
the camp for the noblesse and persons of a certain 
rank. 

Lady Gor. Very right ; I dare say you would 
have thought of proper marquees for hazard and 
quinze. 

Lady Plume. To be sure ! with festino tents 
and opera pavilions. 

Sir Har. Gad, the only plan that could make it 
supportable for a week ! Well, certainly the great- 
est defect in a general is want of taste. 

Lady Sash. Undoubtedly ; and conduct, disci- 
pline, and want of humanity, are no atonements 
for it. 

Sir Har. None in nature. 

Lady Plume. But, sir Harry, it is rather un- 
lucky that the military spirit is so universal, for 
you will hardly find one to side with you. 

Sir Har. Universal indeed ; and the ridicule of 
it is, to see how this madness has infected the 
whole road from Maidstone to London. The camp 
jargon is as current all the way as bad silver : the 
very postilions that drive you talk of their cavalry, 
and refuse to charge on a trot up the hill ; the 
turnpikes seem converted into redoubts, and the 
dogs demanded the countersign of my servants 
instead of the tickets. Then, when I got to Maid- 
stone, I found the very waiters had got a smatter- 
ing of tactics ; for inquiring what I could have for 
dinner, a cursed drill-waiter, after reviewing his 
bill of fare with the air of a field-marshal, proposed 
an advanced party of soup and bouilli, to be fol- 
lowed by the main body of ham and chickens, 
flanked by a fricassee, with salads in the intervals, 
and a corps -de-reserve of sweetmeats, and whipped 
syllabubs to form a hollow-square in the centre. 

Lady Plume. Ha ! ha ! ha ! sir Harry, I am 
very sorry you have so strong a dislike to every- 
thing military ; for unless you would contribute to 
the fortune of our little recruit — 

Sir Har. O madam, most willingly ! — And 



very apropos, here comes your ladyship's prote- 
gee, and has brought, I see, the little recruit, as 
you desired. 

Enter Nell and Nancy. 

Nell. Here, Nancy, make your curtsy, or your 
bow, to the ladies, who have so kindly promised 
you protection. 

Nan. Simple gratitude is the only return I can 
make ; but I am sure the ladies, who have hearts 
to do so good-natured a deed, will excuse my not 
being able to answer them as I ought. 

Nell. She means, an please your ladyships, that 
she will always acknowledge your ladyships' good- 
ness to the last hour of her life, and, as in duty 
bound, will ever pray for your ladyships' happiness 
and prosperity. — [ To Nancy.] That's what you 
mean, you know. 

L t ady Plume. Very well. But, Nancy, are you 
satisfied that your soldier shall continue in his 
duty? 

Nell. O yes, your ladyship ; she's quite satisfied. 

Lady Plume. Well, child, we're all your friends ; 
and be assured your William shall be no sufferer 
by his constancy. 

Nell. There, Nancy ! say something. 

Lady Sash. But are you sure you will be able 
to bear the hardships of your situation ? 

[Retires up with Nancy. 

Lady Plume. [To Nell.] You have seen him, 
then ? 

Nell. O yes, your ladyship. 

Lady Plume. Go, and bring him here. — [Exit 
Nell.] Sir Harry, we have a little plot which 
you must assist us in. 

Nan. [Coming forward with Lady Sash.] O 
madam, most willingly ! 

SONG. 

The fife and drum sound merrily 
A soldier, a soldier's the lad for me : 
With my true love I soon shall be ; 
For who so kind, so true as he ! 
"With him in every toil I'll share ; 
To please him shall he all my care : 
Each peril I'll dare, all hardship I'll bear ; 
For a soldier, a soldier's the lad for me. 

Then if kind Heaven preserve my love, 
What rapturous joys shall Nancy prove ! 
Swift through the camp shall my footstep bound, 
To meet my William, with conquest crown'd : 
Close to my faithful bosom prest, 
Soon shall he hush his cares to rest ; 
Clasp'd in these arms, forget war's alarms ; 
For a soldier, a soldier's the lad for me. 

Lady Plume. Now, Nancy, you must be ruled 
by us. 

Nan. As I live, there's my dear William ! 

Lady Plume. Turn from him — you must ! 

Nan. Oh, I shall discover myself! — I tremble 
so unlike a soldier. 

Re-enter Nell with William. 

Nell. Why, I tell you, William, the ladies want 
to ask you some questions. 

Sir Har. Honest corporal, here's a little re- 
cruit, son to a tenant of mine ; and as I am told 
you are an intelligent young fellow, I mean to put 
him under your care. 

Will. What, that boy, your honour ? Lord 

12 



113 



THE CAMP. 



ACT II* 



bless you, sir, I shall never be able to make any- 
thing of him ! 

Nan. I am sorry for that. [Aside. 

Lady Sash. Nay, corporal, he's very young. 

Will. He is under size, my lady : such a strip- 
ling is fitter for a drummer than a rank and file. 

Sir Har. But he's straight and well made. 

Nan. I wish I was ordered to right about 

[Aside. 

Will. Well, — I'll do all in my power to oblige 
your ladyship. — Come, youngster, turn about. — 
Ah, Nelly, tell me, is't not she? 

Sir Har. Why don't you march him off ? 

Nell. Is he under size, corporal? — Oh, you 
blockhead ! 

Nan. O ladies, pray excuse me ! — My dear 
William ! [Runs into his arms. 

Nell. They'll never be able to come to an expla- 
nation before your ladyships. — Go, go, and talk by 
yourselves. [Nancv and William retire up the stage. 
Enter Serjeant Drill, the Two Countrymen, Fife, 8$c. 

Drill. Please your ladyships, we have taken a 
sort of a spy this morning, who has the assurance 
to deny it, though he confesses himself an Irish 
painter. I have undertaken, however, to bring this 
letter from him to lady Sarah Sash. 

Sir Har. What appears against him ? 

Drill. A great many suspicious circumstances, 
please your honour : he has an O before his name, 
and we took him with a draught of the camp in his 
hand. 

Lady Sash. Ha ! ha ! ha ! this is ridiculous 
enough : 'tis O'Daub, the Irish painter, who di- 
verted us some time ago at the fete-champetre. — 
Honest serjeant, we'll see your prisoner, and I fancy 
you may release him. 



Sir Har. Pray, serjeant, what's to be done this 
evening ? 

Drill. The line, your honour, turns out ; and as 
there are pleasure tents pitched, perhaps the ladies 
will condescend to hear a march and chorus, which 
some recruits are practising against his majesty 
comes to the camp. 

Lady Sash. Come, sir Harry, you'll grow fond 
of a camp life yet. 

Sir Har. Your ladyships will grow tired of it 
first, I'll answer for it. 

Lady Sash. No, no ! 

Sir Har. Yes, on the first bad weather you'll 
give orders to strike your tents and toilets, and 
secure a retreat at Tunbridge. 
A march, while the scene changes to a View of the Camp. 

FINALE. 

Drill. While the loud voice of war resounds from afar, 
Songs of duty and triumph we'll pay ; 
When our monarch appears, we'll give him three 
cheers, 
With huzza ! huzza ! huzza ! 

Nan. Ye sons of the field, whose bright valour's your 
shield, 
Love and beauty your toils shall repay : 
Inspired by the charms of war's fierce alarms, 
Huzza ! huzza ! huzza ! 

Will. Inspired by my love, all dangers 1*11 prove ; 
No perils shall William dismay : 
In war's fierce alarms, inspired by those charms, 
Huzza ! huzza ! huzza ! 

Chorus. May true glory still wave her bright banners 
around ; 
Still with fame, power, and freedom, old England 
be crown'd. [Exeunt omnes. 






THE CRITIC; 



A TRAGEDY REHEARSED. 



TO MRS. GREVILLE. 



Madam,— In requesting your permission to address the following pages to you, which, as they aim themselves to be 
critical, require every protection and allowance that approving taste or friendly prejudice can give them, I yet ventured 
to mention no other motive than the gratification of private friendship and esteem. Had I suggested a hope that your 
implied approbation would give a sanction to their defects, your particular reserve, and dislike to the reputation of 
critical taste, as well as of poetical talent, would have made you refuse the protection of your name to such a purpose. 
However, I am not so ungrateful as now to attempt to combat this disposition in you. I shall not here presume to argue 
that the present state of poetry claims and expects every assistance that taste and example can afford it ; nor endeavour 
to prove that a fastidious concealment of the most elegant productions of judgment and fancy is an ill return for the 
possession of those endowments. Continue to deceive yourself in the idea that you are known only to be eminently 
admired and regarded for the valuable qualities that attach private friendships, and the graceful talents that adorn 
conversation. Enough of what you have written has stolen into full public notice to answer my purpose ; and you 
will, perhaps, be the only person, conversant in elegant literature, who shall read this address and not perceive that 
by publishing your particular approbation of the following drama, I have a more interested object than to boast the true 
respect and regard with which I have the honour to be, Madam, your very sincere and obedient humble servant, 

R. B. SHERIDAN. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS, 

AS ORIGINALLY ACTED AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE IN 1/79. 



Sir Fretful Plagiary .... Mr. Parsons. 

Puff Mr. King. 

Dangle Mr. Dodd. 

Sneer Mr. Palmer. 

Signor Pasticcio Ritornello . Mr. Belpini. 

Interpreter Mr. Baddeley. 

Under Prompter Mr. Phillimore. 



Mr. Hopkins 



Mrs. Dangle Mrs. Hopkins. 

Miss Field and the 
Miss Abrams. 



Signore Pasticcio Ritornello 



Scenemen, Musicians, and Servants. 



CHARACTERS OF THE TRAGEDY. 



Lord Burleigh Mr. Moody. 

Governor of Tilbury Fort . . Mr. Wrighten. 

Earl of Leicester Mr. Farren. 

Sir Walter Raleigh .... Mr. Burton. 

Sir Christopher Hatton . . . Mr. Waldron. 

Master of the Horse .... Mr. Kenny. 

Don Ferolo Whiskerandos . . Mr. Bannister, jun. 

Beefeater ........ Mr. Wright. 

Justice Mr. Packer. 

SnN Mr. Lamash. 

Constable Mr. Fawcett. 



Thames Mr. Gaivdry. 

Tilburina Miss Pope. 

Confidant Mrs. Bradshaw. 

Justice's Lady Mrs. Johnston. 

First Niece Miss Collet. 

Second Niece Miss Kirby. 

Knights, Guards, Constables, Sentinels, Servants, 
Chorus, Rivers, Attendants, &c. &e. 



SCENE, — London : in Dangle's House during the First Act, and throughout the rest of 
the Play in Drury-Lane Theatre. 



118 



THE CRITIC; OR, 



ACT I. 



PROLOGUE, 
BY THE HONOURABLE RICHARD FITZPATRICK. 



The sister muses, whom these realms obey, 
Who o'er the drama hold divided sway, 
Sometimes, by evil counsellors, 'tis said, 
Like earth-born potentates have been misled. 
In those gay days of wickedness and wit, 
When ViUiers criticised what Dryden writ, 
The tragic queen, to please a tasteless crowd, 
Had learn'd to bellow, rant, and roar so loud, 
That frighten'd Nature, her best friend before, 
The blustering beldam's company forswore. 
Her comic sister, who had wit 'tis true, 
With all her merits, had her failings too ; 
And would sometimes in mirthful moments use 
A style too flippant for a well-bred muse : 
Then female modesty abash'd began 
To seek the friendly refuge of the fan, 
Awhile behind that slight intrenchment stood, 
Till driven from thence, she left the stage for 

good. 
In our more pious, and far chaster times, 
These sure no longer are the Muse's crimes ! 
But some complain that, former faults to shun, 
The reformation to extremes has run. 
The frantic hero's wild delirium past, 
Now insipidity succeeds bombast ; 



So slow Melpomene's cold numbers creep, 

Here dulness seems her drowsy court to keep, 

And we are scarce awake, whilst you are fast asleep 

Thalia, once so ill-behaved and rude, 

Reform' d, is now become an arrant prude ; 

Retailing nightly to the yawning pit 

The purest morals, undefiled by wit ! 

Our author offers, in these motley scenes, 

A slight remonstrance to the drama's queens : 

Nor let the goddesses be over nice ; 

Free-spoken subjects give the best advice. 

Although not quite a novice in his trade, 

His cause to-night requires no common aid. 

To this, a friendly, just, and powerful court, 

I come ambassador to beg support. 

Can he undaunted brave the critic's rage ? 

In civil broils with brother bards engage ? 

Hold forth their errors to the public eye, 

Nay more, e'en newspapers themselves defy ? 

Say, must his single arm encounter all ? 

By numbers vanquish'd, e'en the brave may fall ; 

And though no leader should success distrust, 

Whose troops are willing, and whose cause is just; 

To bid such hosts of angry foes defiance, 

His chief dependence must be, your alliance. 



ACT I. 



SCENE I. — A Room in Dangle's House. 

Mr. and Mrs. Dangle discovered at breakfast, and reading 
newspapers. 

Dang. [Reading.] Brutus to Lord North 

Letter the second on the State of the Army — Psha ! 
To the first L dash D. of the A dash Y. — Gen- 
uine Extract of a Letter from St. Kitfs. — Cox- 
heath Intelligence. — It is now confidently asserted 
that Sir Charles Hardy — Psha ! nothing but 
about the fleet and the nation ! — and I hate all 
politics but theatrical politics. — Where's the 
Morning Chronicle ? 

Mrs. Dang. Yes, that's your gazette. 

Dang. So, here we have it. — [Reads.] Thea- 
trical intelligence extraordinary — We hear there 
is a new tragedy in rehearsal at Drury-lane 
Theatre, called the Spanish Armada, said to be 
written by Mr. Puff, a gentleman well known in 
the theatrical world. If we may allow ourselves 
to give credit to the report of the performers, who, 
truth to say, are in general but indifferent judges, 
this piece abounds with the most striking and re- 
ceived beauties of modern composition. — So ! I am 
very glad my friend Puff's tragedy is in such for- 
wardness. — Mrs. Dangle, my dear, you will be very 
glad to hear that Puff's tragedy — 

Mrs. Dang. Lord, Mr. Dangle, why will you 
plague me about such nonsense ? — Now the plays 
are begun I shall have no peace. — Isn't it sufficient 



to make yourself ridiculous by your passion for the 
theatre, without continually teasing me to join you ? 
Why can't you ride your hobby-horse without de- 
siring to place me on a pillion behind you, Mr. 
Dangle ? 

Dang. Nay, my dear, I was only going to read— 

Mrs. Dang. No, no ; you will never read any- 
thing that's worth listening to. You hate to hear 
about your country; there are letters every day 
with Roman signatures, demonstrating the certainty 
of an invasion, and proving that the nation is ut- 
terly undone. But you never will read anything 
to entertain one. 

Dang. What has a woman to do with politics, 
Mrs. Dangle? 

Mrs. Dang. And what have you to do with 
the theatre, Mr. Dangle ? Why should you affect 
the character of a critic ? I have no patience with 
you ! — haven't you made yourself the jest of all 
your acquaintance by your interference in matters 
where you have no business ? Are not you called 
a theatrical quidnunc, and a mock Maecenas to 
second-hand authors ? 

Dang. True ; my power with the managers is 
pretty notorious. But is it no credit to have 
applications from all quarters for my interest — 
from lords to recommend fiddlers, from ladies to 
get boxes, from authors to get answers, and from 
actors to get engagements ? 

Mrs. Dang. Yes, truly ; you have contrived to 



SCENE i. 



A TRAGEDY REHEARSED. 



119 



get a share in all the plague and trouble of theatri- 
cal property, without the profit, or even the credit 
of the abuse that attends it. 

Dang. I am sure, Mrs. Dangle, you are no loser 
by it, however ; you have all the advantages of it. 
Mightn't you, last winter, have had the reading of 
the new pantomime a fortnight previous to its per- 
formance ? And doesn't Mr. Fosbrook let you 
take places for a play before it is advertised, and 
set you down for a box for every new piece through 
the season ? And didn't my friend, Mr. Smatter, 
dedicate his last farce to you at my particular re- 
quest, Mrs. Dangle ? 

Mrs. Dang. Yes ; but wasn't the farce damned, 
Mr. Dangle ? And to be sure it is extremely 
pleasant to have one's house made the motley ren- 
dezvous of all the lackeys of literature ; the very 
high 'Change of trading authors and jobbing 
critics ! — Yes, my drawing-room is an absolute 
register-office for candidate actors, and poets with- 
out character. — Then to be continually alarmed 
with misses and ma'ams piping hysteric changes 
on Juliets and Dorindas, Pollys and Ophelias ; and 
the very furniture trembling at the probationary 
starts and unprovoked rants of would-be Richards 
and Hamlets ! — And what is worse than all, now 
that the manager has monopolised the Opera- 
house, haven't we the signors and signoras calling 
here, sliding their smooth semibreves, and gargling 
glib divisions in their outlandish throats — with 
foreign emissaries and French spies, for aught I 
know, disguised like fiddlers and figure- dancers? 

Dang. Mercy ! Mrs. Dangle ! 

Mrs. Dang. And to employ yourself so idly at 
such an alarming crisis as this too — when, if you 
had the least spirit, you would have been at the 
head of one of the Westminster associations— or 
trailing a volunteer pike in the Artillery-ground ? 
But you — o' my conscience, I believe, if the French 
were landed to-morrow, your first inquiry would 
be, whether they had brought a theatrical troop 
with them. 

Dang. Mrs. Dangle, it does not signify — I 
say the stage is the Mirror of Nature, and the 
actors are the Abstract and brief Chronicles of the 
Time : and pray what can a man of sense study 
better ? — Besides, you will not easily persuade me 
that there is no credit or importance in being at 
the head of a band of critics, who take upon them 
to decide for the whole town, whose opinion and 
patronage all writers solicit, and whose recom- 
mendation no manager dares refuse. 

Mrs. Dang. Ridiculous ! — Both managers and 
authors of the least merit laugh at your preten- 
sions. — The public is their critic — without whose 
fair approbation they know no play can rest on the 
stage, and with whose applause they welcome such 
attacks as yours, and laugh at the malice of them, 
where they can't at the wit. 

Dang. Very well, madam — very well ! 

Enter Servant. 

Ser. Mr. Sneer, sir, to wait on you. 

Dang. Oh, show Mr. Sneer up. — [Exit Ser- 
vant.] Plague on't, now we must appear loving 
and affectionate, or Sneer will hitch us into a story. 

Mrs. Dang. With all my heart ; you can't be 
more ridiculous than you are. 

Dang. You are enough to provoke — 



Enter Sneer. 
Ha ! my dear Sneer, I am vastly glad to see you. — 
My dear, here's Mr. Sneer. 

Mrs. Dang. Good morning to you, sir. 

Dang. Mrs. Dangle and I have been diverting 
ourselves with the papers. Pray, Sneer, won't you 
go to Drury-lane theatre the first night of Puff's 
tragedy ? 

Sneer. Yes ; but I suppose one shan't be able 
to get in, for on the first night of a new piece they 
always fill the house with orders to support it. 
But here, Dangle, I have brought you two pieces, 
one of which you must exert yourself to make the 
managers accept, I can tell you that ; for 'tis writ- 
ten by a person of consequence. 

Dang. So ! ,now my plagues are beginning. 

Sneer. Ay, I am glad of it, for now you'll be 
happy. Why, my dear Dangle, it is a pleasure to 
see how you enjoy your volunteer fatigue, and your 
solicited solicitations. 

Dang. It's a great trouble — yet, egad, it's plea- 
sant too. — Why, sometimes of a morning I have a 
dozen people call on me at breakfast-time, whose 
faces I never saw before, nor ever desire to see 
again. 

Sneer. That must be very pleasant indeed ! 

Dang. And not a week but I receive fifty let- 
ters, and not a line in them about any business of 
my own. 

Sneer. An amusing correspondence ! 

Dang. [Reading.] Bursts into tears, and exit. 
— What, is this a tragedy ? 

Sneer. No, that's a genteel comedy, not a 
translation — only taken from the French : it is 
written in a style which they have lately tried to 
run down ; the true sentimental, and nothing ridi- 
culous in it from the beginning to the end. 

Mrs. Dang. Well, if they had kept to that, I 
should not have been such an enemy to the stage ; 
there was some edification to be got from those 
pieces, Mr. Sneer ! 

Sneer. I am quite of your opinion, Mrs. Dan- 
gle : the theatre, in proper hands, might certainly 
be made the school of morality ; but now, I am 
sorry to say it, people seem to go there principally 
for their entertainment ! 

Mrs. Dang. It would have been more to the 
credit of the managers to have kept it in the other 
line. 

Sneer. Undoubtedly, madam; and hereafter 
perhaps to have had it recorded, that in the midst 
of a luxurious and dissipated age, they preserved 
two houses in the capital, where the conversation 
was always moral at least, if not entertaining ! 

Dang. Now, egad, I think the worst alteration 
is in the nicety of the audience ! — No double-en- 
tendre, no smart innuendo admitted ; even Van- 
brugh and Congreve obliged to undergo a bungling 
reformation ! 

Sneer. Yes, and our prudery in this respect is 
just on a par with the artificial bashfulness of a 
courtesan, who increases the blush upon her cheek 
in an exact proportion to the diminution of her 
modesty. 

Dang. Sneer can't even give the public a good 
word ! — But what have we here ? — This seems a 
very odd — 

Sneer. Oh, that's a comedy, on a very new plan ; 
replete with wit and mirth, yet of a most serious 
moral ! You see it is called The Reformed House- 



120 



THE CRITIC ; OR, 



ACT JI. 



breaker; where by the mere force of humour, 
housebreaking is put into so ridiculous a light, that 
if the piece has its proper run, I have no doubt but 
that bolts and bars will be entirely useless by the 
end of the season. 

Dang. Egad, this is new indeed ! 

Sneer. Yes ; it is written by a particular friend 
of mine, who has discovered that the follies and 
foibles of society are subjects unworthy the notice 
of the comic muse, who should be taught to stoop 
only at the greater vices and blacker crimes of 
humanity — gibbeting capital offences in five acts, 
and pillorying petty larcenies in two. — In short, 
his idea is to dramatise the penal laws, and make 
the stage a court of ease to the Old Bailey. 

Dang. It is truly moral. 

Re-enter Servant. 

Ser. Sir Fretful Plagiary, sir. 

Dang. Beg him to walk up. — [Exit Servant.] 
Now, Mrs. Dangle, sir Fretful Plagiary is an author 
to your own taste. 

Mrs. Dang. I confess he is a favourite of 
mine, because everybody else abuses him. 

Sneer. Very much to the credit of your charity, 
madam, if not of your judgment. 

Dang. But, egad, he allows no merit to any 
author but himself, that's the truth on't — though 
he's my friend. 

Sneer. Never. — He is as envious as an old maid 
verging on the desperation of six-and-thirty : and 
then the insidious humility with which he seduces 
you to give a free opinion on any of his works, can 
be exceeded only by the petulant arrogance with 
which he is sure to reject your observations. 

Dang. Very true, egad — though he's my friend. 

Sneer. Then his affected contempt of all news- 
paper strictures ; though, at the same time, he is 
the sorest man alive, and shrinks like scorched 
parchment from the fiery ordeal of true criticism : 
yet is he so covetous of popularity, that he had 
rather be abused than not mentioned at all. 

Dang. There's no denying it — though he is un- 
friend. 

Sneer. You have read the tragedy he has just 
finished, haven't you ? 

Dang. O yes ; he sent it to me yesterday. 

Sneer. Well, and you think it execrable, don't 
you ? 

Dang. Why, between ourselves, egad, I must 
own — though he is my friend — that it is one of the 
most — He's here — [Aside.'] — finished and most 
admirable perform — 

Sir Fret. [Without.] Mr. Sneer with him, did 
you say ? 

Enter Sir Fretful Plagiary. 

Dang. Ah, my dear friend ! — Egad, we were 
just speaking of your tragedy. — Admirable, sir 
Fretful, admirable ! 

Sneer. You never did anything beyond it, sir 
Fretful — never in your life. 

Sir Fret. You make me extremely happy ; for 
without a compliment, my dear Sneer, there isn't 
a man in the world whose judgment I value as I 
do yours — and Mr. Dangle's. 

Mrs. Dang. They are only laughing at you, sir 
Fretful ; for it was but just now that — 

Dang. Mrs. Dangle ! — Ah, sir Fretful, you 
know Mrs. Dangle. — My friend Sneer was rally- 



ing just now :— he knows how she admires you, 
and — 

Sir Fret. O Lord, I am sure Mr. Sneer has 
more taste and sincerity than to— [Aside.] A 
damned double-faced fellow ! 

Dang. Yes, yes, — Sneer will jest— but a better 
humoured — 

Sir Fret. Oh, I know — 

Dang. He has a ready turn for ridicule — his wit 
costs him nothing. 

Sir Fret. No, egad,— or I should wonder how 
he came by it. [Aside. 

Mrs. Dang. Because his jest is always at the 
expense of his friend. [Aside. 

Dang. But, sir Fretful, have you sent your play 
to the managers yet? — or can I be of any service 
to you ? 

Sir Fret. No, no, I thank you : I believe the 

piece had sufficient recommendation with it 

I thank you though — I sent it to the manager of 
Covent-garden theatre this morning. 

Sneer. I should have thought now, that it 
might have been cast (as the actors call it) better 
at Drury-lane. 

Sir Fret. O Lud ! no — never send a play there 
while I live — hark'ee ! [Whispers Sneer. 

Sneer. Writes himself! — I know he does — 

Sir Fret. I say nothing — I take away from no 
man's merit — am hurt at no man's good fortune — I 
say nothing. — But this I will say — through all my 
knowledge of life, I have observed — that there is 
not a passion so strongly rooted in the human 
heart as envy. 

Sneer. I believe you have reason for what you 
say, indeed. 

Sir Fret. Besides — I can tell you it is not 
always so safe to leave a play in the hands of those 
who write themselves. 

Sneer. What, they may steal from them, hey, 
my dear Plagiary ? 

Sir Fret. Steal! — to be sure they may; and, 
egad, serve your best thoughts as gipsies do stolen 
children, disfigure them to make 'em pass for their 
own. 

. Sneer. But your present work is a sacrifice to 
Melpomene, and he you know never — 

Sir Fret. That's no security : a dexterous 
plagiarist may do anything. Why, sir, for aught I 
know, he might take out some of the best things 
in my tragedy, and put them into his own comedy. 

Sneer. That might be done, I dare be sworn. 

Sir Fret. And then, if such a person gives you 
the least hint or assistance, he is devilish apt to 
take the merit of the whole — 

Dang. If it succeeds. 

Sir Fret. Ay, — but with regard to this piece, I 
think I can hit that gentleman, for I can safely 
swear he never read it. 

Sneer. I'll tell you how you may hurt him 
more. 

Sir Fret. How ? 

Sneer. Swear he wrote it. 

Sir Fret. Plague on't now, Sneer, I shall take 
it ill ! — I believe you want to take away my cha- 
racter as an author. 

Sneer. Then I am sure you ought to be very 
much obliged to me. 

Sir Fret. Hey ! — sir! — 

Dang. Oh, you know, he never means what he 
says. 



A TRAGEDY REHEARSED. 



121 



Sir Fret. Sincerely then — you do like the piece ? 

Sneer. Wonderfully ! 

Sir Fret. But come now, there must be some- 
thing that you think might be mended, hey ? — Mr. 
Dangle, has nothing struck you? 

Dang. Why, faith, it is but an ungracious thing, 
for the most part, to — 

Sir Fret. With most authors it is just so indeed ; 
they are in general strangely tenacious ! But, for 
my part, I am never so well pleased as when a 
judicious critic points out any defect to me ; for 
what is the purpose of showing a work to a friend, 
if you don't mean to profit by his opinion ? 

Sneer. Very true. — Why then, though I seriously 
admire the piece upon the whole, yet there is one 
small objection ; which, if you'll give me leave, I'll 
mention. 

Sir Fret. Sir, you can't oblige me more. 

Sneer. I think it wants incident. 

Sir Fret. Good God ! you surprise me ! — wants 
incident ! 

Sneer. Yes ; I own I think the incidents are too 
few. 

Sir Fret. Good God ! Believe me, Mr. Sneer, 
there is no person for whose judgment I have a 
more implicit deference. But I protest to you, Mr. 
Sneer, I am only apprehensive that the incidents 
are too crowded. — My dear Dangle, how does it 
strike you ? 

Dang. Really I can't agree with my friend 
Sneer. I think the plot quite sufficient ; and the 
four first acts by many degrees the best I ever read 
or saw in my life. If I might venture to suggest 
anything, it is that the interest rather falls off in 
the fifth. 

Sir Fret. Rises, I believe you mean, sir. 

Dang. No, I don't, upon my word. 

Sir Fret Yes, yes, you do, upon my soul ! — it 
certainly don't fall off, I assure you. — No, no ; it 
don't fall off. 

Dang. Now, Mrs. Dangle, didn't you say it 
struck you in the same light ? 

Mrs. Dang. No, indeed, I did not— I did not 
see a fault in any part of the play, from the begin- 
ning to the end. 

Sir Fret. Upon my soul, the women are the 
best judges after all ! 

Mrs. Dang. Or, if I made any objection, I am 
sure it was to nothing in the piece ; but that I was 
afraid it was, on the whole, a little too long. 

Sir Fret. Pray, madam, do you speak as to 
duration of time ; or do you mean that the story is 
tediously spun out ? 

Mrs. Dang. O Lud ! no — I speak only with 
reference to the usual length of acting plays. 

Sir Fret. Then I am very happy — very happy 
indeed — because the play is a short play, a remark- 
ably short play. I should not venture to differ with 
a lady on a point of taste ; but, on these occasions, 
the watch, you know, is the critic. 

Mrs. Dang. Then, I suppose, it must have been 
Mr. Dangle's drawling manner of reading it to me. 

Sir Fret. Oh, if Mr. Dangle read it, that's quite 
another affair ! — But I assure you, Mrs. Dangle, 
the first evening you can spare me three hours 
and a half, I'll undertake to read you the whole 
from beginning to end, with the prologue and 
epilogue, and allow time for the music between the 
acts. 

Mrs Dang. I hope to see it on the stage next. 



Dang. Well, sir Fretful, I wish you may be able 
to get rid as easily of the newspaper criticisms as 
you do of ours. 

Sir Fret. The newspapers ! Sir, they are the 
most villanous — licentious — abominable — infernal 
— Not that I ever read them — no — I make it a 
rule never to look into a newspaper. 

Dang. You are quite right ; for it certainly must 
hurtan author of delicate feelings to see the liberties 
they take. 

Sir Fret. No, quite the contrary ! their abuse 
is, in fact, the best panegyric — I like it of all things. 
An author's reputation is only in danger from their 
support. 

Sneer. Why that's true — and that attack, now, 
on you the other day — 

Sir Fret. What ? where ? 

Dang. Ay, you mean in a paper of Thursday : 
it was completely ill-natured, to be sure. 

Sir Fret. Oh, so much the better. — Ha ! ha ! 
ha ! I wouldn't have it otherwise. 

Dang. Certainly it is only to be laughed at ; 
for — 

Sir Fret. You don't happen to recollect what 
the fellow said, do you ? 

Sneer. Pray, Dangle — Sir Fretful seems a little 
anxious — 

Sir Fret. O Lud, no !— anxious ! — not I, — not 
the least. — I — but one may as well hear, you know. 

Dang. Sneer, do you recollect? — [Aside to 
Sneer.] Make out something. 

Sneer. [Aside to Dangle.] I will. — [Aloud.] 
Yes, yes, I remember perfectly. 

Sir Fret. Well, and pray now — not that it 
signifies — what might the gentleman say ? 

Sneer. Why, he roundly asserts that you have 
not the slightest invention or original genius what- 
ever ; though you are the greatest traducer of all 
other authors living. 

Sir Fret. Ha ! ha ! ha !— very good ! 

Sneer. That as to comedy, you have not one idea 
of your own, he believes, even in your common- 
place-book—where stray jokes and pilfered witti- 
cisms are kept with as much method as the ledger 
of the lost and stolen office. 

Sir Fret. Ha ! ha ! ha ! — very pleasant ! 

Sneer. Nay, that you are so unlucky as not to 
have the skill even to steal with taste : — but that 
you glean from the refuse of obscure volumes, 
where more judicious plagiarists have been before 
you ; so that the body of your work is a composi- 
tion of dregs and sediments — like a bad tavern's 
worst wine. 

Sir Fret. Ha ! ha ! 

Sneer. In your more serious efforts, he says, 
your bombast would be less intolerable, if the 
thoughts were ever suited to the expression ; but 
the homeliness of the sentiment stares through the 
fantastic encumbrance of its fine language, like a 
clown in one of the new uniforms ! 

Sir Fret. Ha ! ha ! 

Sneer. That your occasional tropes and flowers 
suit the general coarseness of your style, as tam- 
bour sprigs would a ground of linsey-woolsey ; 
while your imitations of Shakspeare resemble the 
mimicry of Falstaff's page, and are about as near 
the standard of the original. 

Sir Fret. Ha ! 

Sneer. In short, that even the finest passages 
you steal are of no service to you ; for the poverty 



122 



THE CRITIC; OR, 



ACT 



of your own language prevents their assimilating ; 
so that they lie on the surface like lumps of marl 
on a barren moor, encumbering what it is not in 
their power to fertilise ! 

Sir Fret. {After great agitation.'} Now, an- 
other person would be vexed at this. 

Sneer. Oh ! but I wouldn't have told you — only 
to divert you. 

Sir Fret. I know it — I am diverted. — Ha ! ha ! 
ha i— not the least invention! — Ha! ha! ha! — 
very good ! — very good ! 

Sneer. Yes — no genius ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Dang, A severe rogue ! ha ! ha ! ha ! But you 
are quite right, sir Fretful, never to read such 
nonsense. 

Sir Fret. To be sure — for if there is anything 
to one's praise, it is a foolish vanity to be gratified 
at it ; and, if it is abuse, — why one is always sure 
to hear of it from one damned good-natured friend 
or another ! 

Re-enter Servant. 

Ser. Sir, there is an Italian gentleman, with a 
French interpreter, and three young ladies, and a 
dozen musicians, who say they are sent by lady 
Rondeau and Mrs. Fugue. 

Dang. Gadso ! they come by appointment ! — 
Dear Mrs. Dangle, do let them know I'll see them 
directly. 

Mrs. Dang. You know, Mr. Dangle, I shan't 
understand a word they say. 

Dang. But you hear there's an interpreter. 

Mrs. Dang. Well, I'll try to endure their com- 
plaisance till you come. {Exit. 

Ser. And Mr. Puff, sir, has sent word that the 
last rehearsal is to be this morning, and that he'll 
call on you presently. 

Dang. That's true — I shall certainly be at 
home. — [Exit Servant.] Now, sir Fretful, if you 
have a mind to have justice done you in the way 
of answer, egad, Mr. Puff's your man. 

Sir Fret. Psha ! Sir, why should I wish to have 
it answered, when I tell you I am pleased at it ? 

Dang. True, I had forgot that. But I hope 
you are not fretted at what Mr. Sneer — 

Sir Fret. Zounds ! no, Mr. Dangle ; don't 1 
tell you these things never fret me in the least ? 

Dang. Nay, I only thought — 

Sir Fret. And let me tell you, Mr. Dangle, 'tis 
damned affronting in you to suppose that I am 
hurt when I tell you I am not. 

Sneer. But why so warm, sir Fretful ? 

Sir Fret. Gad's life ! Mr. Sneer, you are as 
absurd as Dangle : how often must I repeat it to 
you, that nothing can vex me but your supposing 
it possible for me to mind the damned nonsense 
you have been repeating to me ! — and, let me tell 
you, if you continue to believe this, you must mean 
to insult me, gentlemen — and, then, your disrespect 
will affect me no more than the newspaper criti- 
cisms — and I shall treat it with exactly the same 
calm indifference and philosophic contempt — and 
so your servant. [Exit. 

Sneer. Ha ! ha ! ha ! poor sir Fretful ! Now 
will he go and vent his philosophy in anonymous 
abuse of all modern critics and authors. — But, 
Dangle, you must get your friend Puff to take me 
to the rehearsal of his tragedy. 

Dang. I'll answer for't, he'll thank you for 
desiring it. But come and help me to judge of 



this musical family : they are recommended by 
people of consequence, I assure you. 

Sneer. I am at your disposal the whole morn- 
ing ; — but I thought you had been a decided critic 
in music as well as in literature. 

Dang. So I am — but I have a bad ear. Ffaith, 
Sneer, though, I am afraid we were a little too 
severe on sir Fretful — though he is my friend. 

Sneer. Why, 'tis certain, that unnecessarily to 
mortify the vanity of any writer is a cruelty 
which mere dulness never can deserve ; but where 
a base and personal malignity usurps the place of 
literary emulation, the aggressor deserves neither 
quarter nor pity. 

Dang. That's true, egad! — though he's my 
friend ! 



SCENE II. — A Drawing-room in Dangle's 
House. 

Mrs. Dangle, Signor Pasticcio Ritornello, Signore 
Pasticcio Ritornello, Interpreter, and Musicians, 

discovered. 

Interp. Je dis, madame, j'ai l'honneur to intro- 
duce et de vous demander votre protection pour 
le signor Pasticcio Ritornello et pour sa charmante 
famille. 

Signor Past. Ah ! vosignoria, noi vi preghiamo 
di favoritevi colla vostra protezione. 

1 Signora Past. Vosignoria fatevi questi grazie# 

2 Signora Past. Si, signora. 

Interp. Madame — me interpret. — C'est a dire 
— in English — qui'ils vous prient de leur faire 
l'honneur — 

Mrs. Dang. I say again, gentlemen, I don't 
understand a word you say. 

Signor Past. Questo signore spieghero — 

Interp. Oui — me interpret. — Nous avons les 
lettres de recommendation pour monsieur Dangle 
de— 

Mrs. Dang. Upon my word, sir, I don't under- 
stand you. 

Signor Past. La contessa Rondeau £ nostra 
padrona. 

3 Signora Past. Si, padre, et miladi Fugue. 
Interp. O ! — me interpret. — Madame, ils disent 

— in English — Qu'ils ont l'honneur d'etre proteges 
de ces dames. — You understand ? 

Mrs. Dang. No, sir, — no understand ! 

Enter Dangle and Sneer. 

Interp. Ah, voici monsieur Dangle ! 

All Italians. Ah ! signor Dangle ! 

Mrs. Dang. Mr. Dangle, here are two very 
civil gentlemen trying to make themselves under- 
stood, and I don't know which is the interpreter. 

Dang. Eh, bien ! 

[The Interpreter and Signor Pasticcio here speak at the 
same time. 

Interp. Monsieur Dangle, le grand bruit de vos 
talens pour la critique, et de votre interet avec 
messieurs les directeurs a tous les theatres — 

Signor Past. Vosignoria siete si famoso par la 
vostra conoscenza, e vostra interessa colla le diret- 
tore da — 

Dang. Egad, I think the interpreter is the 
hardest to be understood of the two ! 

Sneer. Why, I thought, Dangle, you had oeen 
an admirable linguist ! 



SCENE II. 



A TRAGEDY REHEARSED. 



123 



Dang. So I am, if they would not talk so 
damned fast. 

Sneer. Well, I'll explain that — the less time we 
lose in hearing them the better — for that, I sup- 
pose, is what they are brought here for. 
[Speaks to Signor Pasticcio — they sing trios, fyc, Dangle 
beating out of time. 

Enter Servant and whispers Dangle. 

Dang, Show him up. — [Exit Servant.] Bravo ! 
admirable ! bravissimo ! admirablissimo ! — Ah ! 
Sneer ! where will you find such voices as these in 
England ? 

Sneer. Not easily. 

Dang. But Puff is coming — Signor a*nd little 
signora's obligatissimo ! — Sposa signora Danglena 
— Mrs. Dangle, shall I beg you to offer them 
some refreshments, and take their address in the 
next room. 

\Exit Mrs. Dangle with Signor Pasticcio, Signore 
Pasticcio, Musicians, and Interpreter ceremoniously. 



Re-enter Servant. 
Ser. Mr. Puff, sir. 

Enter Puff. 



Exit. 



Dang, My dear Puff ! 

Puff. My dear Dangle, how is it with you ? 

Dang. Mr. Sneer, give me leave to introduce 
Mr. Puff to you. 

Puff". Mr. Sneer is this ? — Sir, he is a gentle- 
man whom I have long panted for the honour of 
knowing — a gentleman whose critical talents and 
transcendent judgment — 

Sneer. Dear sir — 

Dang. Nay, don't be modest, Sneer ; my friend 
Puff only talks to you in the style of his profession. 

Sneer. His profession ! 

Puff. Yes, sir ; I make no secret of the trade I 
follow : among friends and brother authors, Dangle 
knows I love to be frank on the subject, and to 
advertise myself viva voce — I am, sir, a practi- 
tioner in panegyric, or, to speak more plainly, a 
professor of the art of puffing, at your service — or 
anybody else's. 

Sneer. Sir, you are very obliging ! — I believe, 
Mr. Puff, I have often admired your talents in the 
daily prints. 

Puff. Yes, sir, I flatter myself I do as much 
business in that way as any six of the fraternity 
in town. — Devilish hard work all the summer, 
friend Dangle, — never worked harder! — But, 
hark'ee, — the winter managers were a little sore, I 
believe. 

Dang. No ; I believe they took it all in good 
part. 

Puff. Ay ! then that must have been affectation 
in them ; for, egad, there were some of the attacks 
which there was no laughing at ! 

Sneer. Ay, the humorous ones. — But I should 
think, Mr. Puff, that authors would in general be 
able to do this sort of work for themselves. 

Puff. Why, yes — but in a clumsy way : besides, 
we look on that as an encroachment, and so take 
the opposite side. I dare say, now, you conceive 
half the very civil paragraphs and advertisements 
you see to be written by the parties concerned, or 
their friends ? — No such thing : nine out of ten 
manufactured by me in the way of business. 

Sneer. Indeed ! 



Puff. Even the auctioneers now — the auctioneers, 
I say — though the rogues have lately got some 
credit for their language — not an article of the 
merit theirs : take them out of their pulpits, and 
they are as dull as catalogues ! — No, sir ; 'twas I 
first enriched their style — 'twas I first taught them 
to crowd their advertisements with panegyrical 
superlatives, each epithet rising above the other, 
like the bidders in their own auction-rooms ! 
From me they learned to inlay their phraseology 
with variegated chips of exotic metaphor : by me 
too their inventive faculties were called forth : — 
yes, sir, by me they were instructed to clothe ideal 
walls with gratuitous fruits — to insinuate obse- 
quious rivulets into visionary groves — to teach 
courteous shrubs to nod their approbation of the 
grateful soil ; or on emergencies to raise upstart 
oaks, where there never had been an acorn ; to 
create a delightful vicinage without the assistance 
of a neighbour ; or fix the temple of Hygeia in the 
fens of Lincolnshire ! 

Dang. I am sure you have done them infinite 
service ; for now, when a gentleman is ruined, he 
parts with his house with some credit. 

Sneer. Service ! if they had any gratitude, they 
would erect a statue to him ; they would figure him 
as a presiding Mercury, the god of traffic and fic- 
tion, with a hammer in his hand instead of a cadu- 
ceus. — But pray, Mr. Puff, what first put you on 
exercising your talents in this way ? 

Puff. Egad, sir, sheer necessity! — the proper 
parent of an art so nearly allied to invention. You 
must know, Mr. Sneer, that from the first time I 
tried my hand at an advertisement, my success was 
such, that for some time after I led a most extra- 
ordinary life indeed ! 

Sneer. How, pray ? 

Puff. Sir, I supported myself two years entirely 
by my misfortunes. 

Sneer. By your misfortunes ! 

Puff. Yes, sir, assisted by long sickness, and 
other occasional disorders ; and a very comfortable 
living I had of it. 

Sneer. From sickness and misfortunes ! You 
practised as a doctor and an attorney at once ? 

Puff. No, egad ; both maladies and miseries were 
my own. 

Sneer. Hey ! what the plague ! 

Dang. 'Tis true, i'faith. 

Puff. Hark'ee ! — By advertisements — To the 
charitable and humane ! and To those whom Pro- 
vidence hath blessed with affluence f 

Sneer. Oh, I understand you. 

Pup. And, in truth, I deserved what I got ; for 
I suppose never man went through such a series 
of calamities in the same space of time. Sir, I was 
five times made a bankrupt, and reduced from a 
state of affluence, by a train of unavoidable mis- 
fortunes : then, sir, though a very industrious 
tradesman, I was twice burned out, and lost my 
little all both times : I lived upon those fires a 
month. I soon after was confined by a most ex- 
cruciating disorder, and lost the use of my limbs : 
that told very well ; for I had the case strongly 
attested, and went about to collect the subscrip- 
tions myself. 

Dang. Egad, I believe that was when you first 
called on me. 

Puff. In November last ? — O no ; I was at that 
time a close prisoner in the Marshalsea. for a debt 



124 



THE CRITIC ; OR, 



benevolently contracted to serve a friend. — I was 
afterwards twice tapped for a dropsy, which declined 
into a very profitable consumption. I was then 
reduced to — O no — then, I became a widow with 
six helpless children, after having had eleven hus- 
bands pressed, and being left every time eight 
months gone with child, and without money to get 
me into an hospital ! 

Sneer. And you bore all with patience, I make 
no doubt ? 

Puff. Why, yes ; though I made some occasional 
attempts at felo de se ; but as I did not find those 
rash actions answer, I left off killing myself very 
soon. Well, sir, at last, what with bankruptcies, 
fires, gouts, dropsies, imprisonments, and other 
valuable calamities, having got together a pretty 
handsome sum, I determined to quit a business 
which had always gone rather against my con- 
science, and in a more liberal way still to indulge 
my talents for fiction and embellishment, through 
my favourite channels of diurnal communication — 
and so, sir, you have my history. 

Sneer. Most obligingly communicative indeed ! 
and your confession, if published, might certainly 
serve the cause of true charity, by rescuing the 
most useful channels of appeal to benevolence from 
the cant of imposition. But surely, Mr. Puff, 
there is no great mystery in your present pro- 
fession ? 

Puff. Mystery, sir ! I will take upon me to say 
the matter was never scientifically treated nor 
reduced to rule before. 

Sneer. Reduced to rule ! 

Puff. O Lud, sir, you are very ignorant, I am 
afraid ! — Yes, sir, puffing is of various sorts ; the 
principal are, the puff direct, the puff preliminary, 
the puff collateral, the puff collusive, and the puff 
oblique, or puff by implication. These all assume, 
as circumstances require, the various forms of 
letter to the editor, occasional anecdote, impartial 
critique, observation from correspondent, or adver- 
tisement from the party. 

Sneer. The puff direct, I can conceive — 

Puff. O yes, that's simple enough ! For instance, 
— a new comedy or farce is to be produced at one 
of the theatres (though by-the-by they don't bring 
out half what they ought to do) — the author, sup- 
pose Mr. Smatter, or Mr. Dapper, or any parti- 
cular friend of mine — very well ; the day before it 
is to be performed, T write an account of the man- 
ner in which it was received ; I have the plot from 
the author, and only add — " characters strongly 
drawn — highly coloured — hand of a master — fund 
of genuine humour — mine of invention — neat 
dialogue-— Attic salt." Then for the performance 
— " Mr. Dodd was astonishingly great in the cha- 
racter of sir Harry. That universal and judicious 
actor, Mr. Palmer, perhaps never appeared to more 
advantage than in the colonel ; — but it is not in 
the power of language to do justice to Mr. King : 
indeed he more than merited those repeated bursts 
of applause which he drew from a most brilliant 
and judicious audience. As to the scenery — the 
miraculous powers of Mr. De Loutherbourg's pen- 
cil are universally acknowledged. In short, we are 
at a loss which to admire most, the unrivalled 
genius of the author, the great attention and libe- 
rality of the managers, the wonderful abilities of 
the painter, or the incredible exertions of all 
the performers." 



Sneer. That's pretty well indeed, sir. 

Pi'ff. Oh, cool ! — quite cool ! — to what I some- 
times do. 

Sneer. And do you think there are any who are 
influenced by this ? 

Puff. O Lud, yes, sir ! the number of those who 
undergo the fatigue of judging for themselves is 
very small indeed. 

Sneer. Well, sir, the puff preliminary ? 

Puff. Oh, that, sir, does well in the form of a cau- 
tion. In a matter of gallantry now — Sir Flimsy 
Gossamer wishes to be well with lady Fanny Fete, 
He applies to me — I open trenches for him with a 
paragraph in the Morning Post. — " It is recom- 
mended *to the beautiful and accomplished lady F 
four stars F dash E to be on her guard against that 
dangerous character, sir F dash G. ; who, however 
pleasing and insinuating his manners may be, is 
certainly not remarkable for the constancy of 
his attachments /" — in italics. Here you see, 
sir Flimsy Gossamer is introduced to the parti- 
cular notice of lady Fanny, who perhaps never 
thought of him before — she finds herself publicly 
cautioned to avoid him, which naturally makes her 
desirous of seeing him ; the observation of their 
acquaintance causes a pretty kind of mutual em- 
barrassment ; this produces a sort of sympathy of 
interest, which if sir Flimsy is unable to improve 
effectually, he at least gains the credit of having 
their names mentioned together, by a particular set, 
and in a particular way — which nine times out of 
ten is the full accomplishment of modern gallantry. 

Dang. Egad, Sneer, you will be quite an adept 
in the business ! 

Puff. Now, sir, the puff collateral is much used 
as an appendage to advertisements, and may take 
the form of anecdote. — ''Yesterday, as the cele- 
brated George Bonmot was sauntering down St. 
James's-street, he met the lively lady Mary Myrtle 
coming out of the park : — ' Good God, lady Mary, 
I'm surprised to meet you in a white jacket, — for 
I expected never to have seen you, but in a full- 
trimmed uniform and a light horseman's cap !' — 
' Heavens, George, where could you have learned 
that ?'— ' Why,' replied the wit, ' I just saw a print 
of you, in a new publication called the Camp Ma- 
gazine ; which, by-the-by, is a devilish clever thing, 
and is sold at No. 3, on the right hand of the 
way, two doors from the printing-office, the corner 
of Ivy-lane, Paternoster-row, price only one shil- 
ling.' " 

Sneer. Very ingenious indeed ! 

Puff. But the puff collusive is the newest of 
any ; for it acts in the disguise of determined hos- 
tility. It is much used by bold booksellers and 
enterprising poets. — " An indignant correspondent 
observes, that the new poem called Beelzebub's 
Cotillon, or Proserpine' s Fete Champetre, is one 
of the most unjustifiable performances he ever 
read. The severity with which certain characters 
are handled is quite shocking : and as there are 
many descriptions in it too warmly coloured for 
female delicacy, the shameful avidity with which 
this piece is bought by all people of fashion is a 
reproach on the taste of the times, and a disgrace 
to the delicacy of the age." Here you see the two 
strongest inducements are held forth ; first, that 
nobody ought to read it ; and secondly, that every- 
body buys it : on the strength of which the pub- 
lisher boldly prints the tenth edition, before he had 



SCJJNE I. 



A TRAGEDY REHEARSED. 



125 



sold ten of the first ; and then establishes it by 
threatening himself with the pillory, or absolutely 
indicting himself for scan. mag. 

Dang. Ha ! ha ! ha ;— 'gad, I know it is so. 

Puff. As to the puff oblique, or puff by impli- 
cation, it is too various and extensive to be illus- 
trated by an instance : it attracts in titles and 
presumes in patents ; it lurks in the limitation of a 
subscription, and invites in the assurance of crowd 
and incommodation at public places ; it delights to 
draw forth concealed merit, with a most disinter- 
ested assiduity ; and sometimes wears a counte- 
uance of smiling censure and tender reproach. It 
has a wonderful memory for parliamentary debates, 
and will often give the whole speech of a favoured 
member with the most flattering accuracy. But, 
above all, it is a great dealer in reports and sup- 
positions. It has the earliest intelligence of intended 
preferments that will reflect honour on the patrons ; 
and embryo promotions of modest gentlemen, who 
know nothing of the matter themselves. It can 
hint a ribbon for implied services in the air of a 
common report ; and with the carelessness of a 
casual paragraph, suggest officers into commands, 
to which they have no pretension but their wishes. 
This, sir, is the last principal class of the art of 
puffing — an art which I hope you will now agree 
with me is of the highest dignity, yielding a tabla- 
ture of benevolence and public spirit ; befriending 
equally trade, gallantry, criticism, and politics : the 
applause of genius — the register of charity — the 
triumph of heroism — the self-defence of contractors 
— the fame of orators — and the gazette of ministers. 

Sneer. Sir, I am completely a convert both to 
the importance and ingenuity of your profession ; 
and now, sir, there is but one thing which can 
possibly increase my respect for you, and that is,' 



your permitting me to be present this morning at 
the rehearsal of your new trage — 

Puff. Hush, for heaven's sake ! — My tragedy ! 
— Egad, Dangle, I take this very ill : you know how 
apprehensive I am of being known to be the author. 

Dang. I'faith I would not have told — but it's in 
the papers, and your name at length in the Morn- 
ing Chronicle. 

Puff. Ah ! those damned editors never can keep 
a secret ! — "Well, Mr. Sneer, no doubt you will do me 
great honour — I shall be infinitely happy — highly 
flattered — 

Dang. I believe it must be near the time — shall 
we go together ? 

Puff. No ; it will not be yet this hour, for they 
are always late at that theatre : besides I must 
meet you there, for I have some little matters here 
to send to the papers, and a few paragraphs to 
scribble before I go. — [Looking at memorandums.'] 
Here is A conscientious Baker, on the subject of 
the Army Bread ; and A Detester oj visible Brick- 
work, in favour of the new-invented Stucco ; both 
in the style of Junius, and promised for to-mor- 
row. The Thames navigation too is at a stand. 
Misomud or Anti-shoal must go to work again 
directly. — Here too are some political memo- 
randums — I see ; ay — To take Paul Jones, and 
get the Indiamen out of the Shannon — reinforce 
Byron — compel the Dutch to — so ! — I must do that 
in the evening papers, or reserve it for the Morn- 
ing Herald ; for I know that I have undertaken 
to-morrow, besides, to establish the unanimity of 
the fleet in the Public Advertiser, and to shoot 
Charles Fox in the Morning Post. — So, egad, I 
han't a moment to lose ! 

Dang. Well, we'll meet in the Green Room. 

[Exeunt severally. 



ACT II. 



SCENE I.— The Theatre, before the Curtain. 
Enter Dangle, Puff, and Sneer. 

Puff. No, no, sir; what Shakspeare says of 
actors maybe better applied to the purpose of plays ; 
they ought to be the abstract and brief chronicles 
of the time. Therefore when history, and particu- 
larly the history of our own country, furnishes any- 
thing like a case in point, to the time in which an 
author writes, if he knows his own interest, he will 
take advantage of it : so, sir, I call my tragedy The 
Spanish Armada ; and have laid the scene before 
Tilbury Fort. 

Sneer. A most happy thought, certainly ! 

Dang. Egad it was — I told you so. But pray 
now, I don't understand how you have contrived 
to introduce any love into it. 

Puff. Love ! oh, nothing so easy ! for it is a 
received point among poets, that where history 
gives you a good heroic outline for a play, you may 
fill up with a little love at your own discretion : in 
doing which, nine times out of ten, you only make 
up a deficiency in the private history of the times. 
Now I rather think I have done this with some 
success. 



Sneer. No scandal about queen Elizabeth, I 
hope ? 

Puff. O Lud ! no, no ; — I only suppose the 
governor of Tilbury Fort's daughter to be in love 
with the son of the Spanish admiral. 

Sneer. Oh, is that all ! 

Dang. Excellent, i'faith ! I see it at once. — But 
won't this appear rather improbable ? 

Puff. To be sure it will — but what the plague ! 
a play is not to show occurrences that happen every 
day, but things just so strange, that though they 
never did, they might happen. 

Sneer. Certainly nothing is unnatural, that is 
not physically impossible. 

Puff Very true — and for that matter Don Ferolo 
Whiskerandos, for that's the lover's name, might 
have been over here in the train of the Spanish 
ambassador; or Tilburina, for that is the lady's 
name, might have been in love with him, from 
having heard his character, or seen his picture ; or 
from knowing that he was the last man in the 
world she ought to be in love with — or for any 
other good female reason. — However, sir, the fact 
is, that though she is but a knight's daughter, 
egad ! she is in love like any princess ! 

Dang. Poor young lady ! I feel for her already ! 



126 



THE CRITIC ; OR, 



for I can conceive how great the conflict must be 
between her passion and her duty ; her iove for her 
country, and her love for Don Ferolo Whisker- 
andos ! 

Puff. Oh, amazing ! — her poor susceptible heart 
is swayed to and fro by contending passions like — 

Enter Under Prompter. 

Und. Promp. Sir, the scene is set, and every- 
thing is ready to begin, if you please. 

Puff. Egad, then we'll lose no time. 

Und. Promp. Though, I believe, sir, you will 
find it very short, for all the performers have 
profited by the kind permission you granted 
them- 

Puff. Hey ! what ? 

Und. Promp. You know, sir, you gave them 
leave to cut out or omit whatever they found heavy 
or unnecessary to the plot, and I must own they 
have taken very liberal advantage of your indul- 
gence. 

Puff. Well, well. — They are in general very 
good judges, and I know I am luxuriant. — Now, 
Mr. Hopkins, as soon as you please. 

Und. Promp. [To the Orchestra.] Gentlemen, 
will you play a few bars of something, just to — 

Puff. Ay, that's right ; for as we have the scenes 
and dresses, egad, we'll go to't, as if it was the first 
night's performance ; — but you need not mind 
stopping between the acts. — [Exit Under Prompter. 
— Orchestra play — then the bell rings.'] So ! stand 
clear, gentlemen. Now you know there will be a 
cry of Down ! down ! — Hats off ! — Silence ! — Then 
up curtain, and let us see what our painters have 
done for us. [Curtain rises. 



SCENE II.— Tilbury Fort. 
" Two Sentinels discovered asleep." 

Dang. Tilbury Fort ! — very fine indeed ! 

Puff. Now, what do you think I open with ? 

Sneer. Faith, I can't guess — 

Puff. A clock. — Hark! — [Clock strikes.] I open 
with a clock striking, to beget an awful attention 
in the audience : it also marks the time, which is 
four o'clock in the morning, and saves a descrip- 
tion of the rising sun, and a great deal about gilding 
the eastern hemisphere. 

Dang. But pray, are the sentinels to be asleep ? 

Puff. Fast as watchmen. 

Sneer. Isn't that odd though at such an alarming 
crisis ? 

Puff. To be sure it is, — but smaller things must 
give way to a striking scene at the opening ; that's 
a rule. And the case is, that two great men are 
coming to this very spot to begin the piece : now, 
it is not to be supposed they would open their lips, 
if these fellows were watching them ; so, egad, I 
must either have sent them off their posts, or set 
them asleep. 

Sneer. Oh, that accounts for it. — But tell us, 
who are these coming ? 

Puff. These are they — sir Walter Raleigh, and 
sir Christopher Hatton. You'll know sir Christopher 
by his turning out his toes — famous, you know, for 
his dancing. I like to preserve all the little traits 
of character. — Now attend. 



" Enter Sir Walter Raleigh and Sir Christopher 
Hatton. 

Sir Christ. True, gallant Raleigh !" — 

Dang. What, they had been talking before ? 

Puff. O yes ; all the way as they came along. — 
[To the Actors.] I beg pardon, gentlemen; but 
these are particular friends of mine, whose remarks 
may be of great service to us. — [To Sneer and 
Dangle.] Don't mind interrupting them whenever 
anything strikes you. 

" Sir Christ. True, gallant Raleigh ! 
But oh, thou champion of thy country's fame, 
There is a question which I yet must ask ; 
A question which I never ask'd before — 
What mean these mighty armaments ? 
This general muster? and this throng of chiefs?" 

Sneer. Pray, Mr. Puff, how came sir Christo- 
pher Hatton never to ask that question before ? 

Puff. What, before the play began ? — how the 
plague could he ? 

Dang. That's true, i'faith ! 

Puff. But you will hear what he thinks of the 
matter. 

" Sir Christ. Alas ! my nohle friend, when I behold 
Yon tented plains in martial symmetry 
Array'd ; when I count o'er yon glittering lines 
Of crested warriors, where the proud steeds neigh, 
And valour-breathing trumpet's shrill appeal, 
Responsive vibrate on my listening ear ; 
When virgin majesty herself I view, 
Like her protecting Pallas, veil'd in steel, 
With graceful confidence exhort to arms ! 
When briefly all I hear or see bears stamp 
Of martial vigilance and stern defence, 
I cannot but surmise — forgive, my friend, 
If the conjecture's rash — I cannot but 
Surmise the state some danger apprehends !" 

Sneer. A very cautious conjecture that ! 
Puff. Yes, that's his character ; not to give an 
opinion but on secure grounds. — Now then. 

'* Sir Walt. O most accomplish 'd Christopher ! " — 

Puff. He calls him by his christian name, to 
show that they are on the most familiar terms. 

" Sir Walt. O most accomplish'd Christopher ! I 
find 
Thy stanch sagacity still tracks the future, 
In the fresh print of the o'ertaken past." 

Puff Figurative! 

" Sir Walt. Thy fears are just. 

Sir Christ. But where ? whence ? when ? and what 
The danger is, — methinks I fain would learn. 

Sir Walt. You know, my friend, scarce two re- 
volving suns, 
And three revolving moons, have closed their course, 
Since haughty Philip, in despite of peace, 
With hostile hand hath struck at England's trade. 

Sir Christ. I know it well. 

Sir Walt. Philip, you know, is proud Iberia's king. 

Sir Christ. He is. 

Sir Walt. His subjects in base bigotry 

And Catholic oppression held ; while we, 
You know, the Protestant persuasion hold. 

Sir Christ. We do. 

Sir Walt, You know, beside, his boasted 



SCENE II. 



A TRAGEDY REHEARSED. 



127 



The famed Armada, by the Pope baptised, 
With purpose to invade these realms — 

Sir Christ. Is sail'd, 

Our last advices so report. 

Sir Walt. While the Iberian admiral's chief hope, 
His darling son — 

Sir Christ. Ferolo Whiskerandos hight — 

Sir Walt. The same — by chance a prisoner hath 
been ta'en, 
And in this fort of Tilbury — 

Sir Christ. Is now 

Confined, — 'tis true, and oft from yon tall turret's top 
I've mark'dthe youthful Spaniard's haughty mien 
Unconquer'd, though in chains. 

Sir Walt. You also know" — 

Dang. Mr. Puff, as he knows all this, why does 
sir Walter go on telling him ? 

Puff. But the audience are not supposed to 
know anything of the matter, are they ? 

Sneer. True ; but I think you manage ill : for 
there certainly appears no reason why sir Walter 
should be so communicative. 

Pvff. 'Fore Gad, now, that is one of the most 
ungrateful observations I ever heard ! for the less 
inducement he has to tell all this, the more, I 
think, you ought to be obliged to him ; for I 
am sure you'd know nothing of the matter with- 
out it. 

Dang. That's very true, upon my word. 

Puff. But you will find he was not going on. 

" Sir Christ. Enough, enough, — 'tis plain — and I no 
more 
Am in amazement lost !" — 

Puff. Here, now you see, sir Christopher did 
not in fact ask any one question for his own in- 
formation. 

Sneer. No, indeed : his has been a most disin- 
terested curiosity ! 

Dang. Really, I find, we are very much obliged 
to them both. 

Puff. To be sure you are. Now then for the 
commander-in-chief, the earl of Leicester, who, 
you know, was no favourite but of the queen's. — 
We left off — in amazement lost ! 

" Sir Christ. Am in amazement lost. — 

But see where noble Leicester comes ! supreme 
In honours and command. 

Sir Walt. And yet, methinks, 

At such a time, so perilous, so fear'd, 
That staff might well become an abler grasp. 

Sir Christ. And so, by Heaven ! think I ; but soft, 
he's here !" 

Puff. Ay, they envy him ! 

Sneer. But who are these with him ? 

Puff. Oh ! very valiant knights : one is the 
governor of the fort, the other the master of the 
horse. And now, I think, you shall hear some 
better language : I was obliged to be plain and 
intelligible in the first scene, because there was so 
much matter of fact in it ; but now, i'faith, you 
have trope, figure, and metaphor, as plenty as 
noun-substantives. 

" Enter Earl of Leicester, Governor, Master of the 
Horse, Knights, %c. 

Leic. How's this, my friends ! is't thus your new- 
fledged zeal 
.And plumed valour moulds in roosted sloth ? 



Why dimly glimmers that heroic flame, 
Whose reddening blaze, by patriot spirit fed, 
Should be the beacon of a kindling realm ? 
Can the quick current of a patriot heart 
Thus stagnate in a. cold and weedy converse, 
Or freeze in tideless inactivity ? 
No ! rather let the fountain of your valour 
Spring through each stream of enterprise, 
Each petty channel of conducive daring, 
Till the full torrent of your foaming wrath 
O'erwhelm the flats of sunk hostility S" 

Puff. There it is, — followed up ! 

" Sir Walt. No more ! — the freshening breath of 
thy rebuke 
Hath fill'd the swelling canvas of our souls ! 
And thus, though fate should cut *he cable of 

\_All take hands. 
Our topmost hopes, in friendship's closing line 
We'll grapple with despair, and if we fall, 
We'll fall in glory's wake ! 

Leic. There spoke old England's genius ! 
Then, are we all resolved ? 

All. We are — all resolved ? 

Leic. To conquer — or be free ? 

All. To conquer, or be free. 

Leic. All? 

All. All." 

Dang. Nem. con. egad ! 

Puff. O yes ! — where they do agree on the stage, 
their unanimity is wonderful ! 

" Leic. Then, let's embrace — and now — [Kneels." 

Sneer. What the plague, is he going to pray ? 
Puff. Yes ; hush ! — in great emergencies, there 
is nothing like a prayer. 

"Leic. O mighty Mars!" 

Dang. But why should he pray to Mars ? 

Puff. Hush! 

" Leic. If in thy homage bred, 

Each point of discipline I've still observed ; 
Nor but by due promotion, and the right 
Of service, to the rank of major-general 
Have risen ; assist thy votary now ! 

Gov. Yet do not rise, — hear me ! [Kneels. 

Mast. And me ! {Kneels. 

Knight. And me ! {Kneels. 

Sir Walt. And me ! [Kneels- 

Sir Christ. And me ! IKneels" 

Puff. Now pray altogether. 

" All. Behold thy votaries submissive beg, 
That thou wilt deign to grant them all they ask ; 
Assist them to accomplish all their ends, 
And sanctify whatever means they use 
To gain them V 

Sneer. A very orthodox quintetto ! 

Puff. Vastly well, gentlemen ! — Is that well- 
managed or not ? Have you such a prayer as that 
on the stage ? 

Sneer. Not exactly. 

Leic. [ To Puff.] But, sir, you haven't settled 
how we are to get off here. 

Puff. You could not go off kneeling, could you? 

Sir Walt. [To Puff.] O no, sir; impossible! 

Puff. It would have a good effect, i'faith, if you 
could exeunt praying ! — Yes, and would vary the 
established mode of springing off with a glance at 
the pit. 



128 



THE CRITIC; OR, 



Sneer, Oh, never mind, so as you get them off ! 
—I'll answer for it, the audience won't care how. 

Puff. Well, then, repeat the last line standing, 
and go off the old way. 

" All. And sanctify whatever means we use 
To gain them. {Exew&< 

Dang. Bravo ! a fine exit ! 
Sneer. Well, really, Mr. Puff— 
Puff. Stay a moment ! 

" The Sentinels get up. 

1 Sent. All this shall to lord Burleigh's ear. 

2 Sent. 'Tis meet it should. {Exeunt." 

Dang. Hey ! — why, I thought those fellows had 
been asleep ? 

Puff. Only a pretence ; there's the art of it : 
they were spies of lord Burleigh's. 

Sneer. But isn't it odd they were never taken 
notice of, not even by the commander-in-chief ? 

Puff. O Lud, sir ! if people, who want to listen 
or overhear, were not always connived at in a tra- 
gedy, there would be no carrying on any plot in 
the world. 

Dang. That's certain ! 

Puff. But take care, my dear Dangle ! the 
morning-gun is going to fire. {Cannon fires. 

Dang. Well, that will have a fine effect ! 

Puff. I think so, and helps to realise the scene. 
— [Cannon twice.'] What the plague ! three morn- 
ing-guns J there never is but one! — Ay, this is 
always the way at the theatre : give these fellows a 
good thing, and they never know when to have 
done with it. — You have no more cannon to fire ? 

Und. Promp. [ Within.] No, sir. 

Puff. Now, then, for soft music. 

Sneer. Pray what's that for ? 

Puff. It shows that Tilburina is coming ; — no- 
thing introduces you a heroine like soft music. 
Here she comes ! 

Dang. And her confidant, I suppose ? 

Puff'. To be sure ! Here they are — inconsolable 
to the minuet in Ariadne. [Soft music. 

" Enter Tilburina and Confidant. 

Till. Now has the whispering breath of gentle 
morn 
Bad Nature's voice and Nature's heauty rise ; 
While orient Phcebus, with unborrow'd. hues, 
Clothes the waked loveliness which all night slept 
In heavenly drapery ! Darkness is fled. 
Now flowers unfold their beauties to the sun, 
And, blushing, kiss the beam he sends to wake them — 
The striped carnation, and the guarded rose, 
The vulgar wallflower, and smart gillyflower, 
The polyanthus mean — the dapper daisy, 
Sweet William, and sweet marjoram, — and all 
The tribe of single and of double pinks ! 
Now, too, the feather'd warblers tune their notes 
Around, and charm the listening grove. The lark ! 
The linnet ! chaffinch ! bullfinch ! goldfinch ! green- 
finch ! — 
But 0, to me no joy can they afford ! 
Nor rose, nor wallflower, nor smart gillyflower, 
Nov Polyanthus mean, nor dapper daisy, 
Nor William sweet, nor marjoram — nor lark, 
Linnet, nor all the finches of the grove ! " 

Puff. Your white handkerchief, madam !— 



Tilb. I thought, sir, I wasn't to use that till 
heart-rending woe. 

Pu ff- O ves > madam, at the finches of the grove, 
if you please. 

" Tilb. Nor lark, 

Linnet, nor all the finches of the grove ! {Weeps." 

Puff. Vastly well, madam ! 
Dang. Vastly well, indeed ! 

" Tilb. For, O, too sure, heart-rending woe is now 
The lot of wretched Tilburina ! " 

Dang. Oh ! — 'tis too much ! 
Sneer. Oh ! — it is indeed ! 

" Con. Be comforted, sweet lady ; for who knows, 
But Heaven has yet some milk-white day in store ? 

Tilb. Alas ! my gentle Nora, 
Thy tender youth as yet hath never mourn'd 
Love's fatal dart. Else wouldst thou know, that when 
The soul is sunk in comfortless despair, 
It cannot taste of merriment." 

Dang. That's certain ! 

" Con. But see where your stern father conies : 
It is not meet that he should find you thus." 

Puff. Hey, what the plague ! what a cut is 
here ! Why, what is become of the description of 
her first meeting with Don Whiskerandos — his 
gallant behaviour in the sea-fight — and the simile 
of the canary-bird ? 

Tilb. Indeed, sir, you'll find they will not be 
missed. 

Puff. Very well, very well ! 

Tilb. [ To Confidant.] The cue, ma'am, if you 
please. 

" Con. It is not meet that he should find you thus. 

Tilb. Thou counsel'st right ; but 'tis no easy task 
For barefaced grief to wear a mask of joy. 

Enter Governor. 

Gov. How's this !-— in tears ? — O Tilburina, shame ! 
Is this a time for maudling tenderness, 
And Cupid's baby woes ? — Hast thou not heard 
That haughty Spain's pope-consecrated fleet 
Advances to our shores, while England's fate, 
Like a clipp'd guinea, trembles in the scale ? 

Tilb. Then is the crisis of my fate at hand ! 
I see the fleet's approach— I see — " - 

Puff. Now, pray, gentlemen, mind. This is 
one of the most useful figures we tragedy writers 
have, by which a hero or heroine, in consideration 
of their being often obliged to overlook things that 
are on the stage, is allowed, to hear and see a num- 
ber of things that are not. 

Sneer. Yes ; a kind of poetical second-sight ! 

Puff. Yes. — Now then, madam. 

" Tilb. I see their decks 

Are clear'd ! — I see the signal made ! 
The line is form'd ! — a cable's length asunder ! — 
I see the frigates station'd in the rear ; 
And now, I hear the thunder of the guns ! 
I hear the victor's shouts ! — I also hear 
The vanquish'd groan ! — and now 'tis smoke — and now 
I see the loose sails shiver in the wind ! 
I see — I see — what soon you'll see — 

Gov. Hold, daughter ! peace ! this love hath turn'd 
thy brain : 
The Spanish fleet thou canst not see — because — 
It is not yet in sight !" 



SCENE II. 



A TRAGEDY REHEARSED. 



129 



Dang. Egad, though, the governor seems to 
make no allowance for this poetical figure you 
talk of. 

Puff. No, a plain matter-of-fact man ; — that's 
his character. 

" Tilb. But will you then refuse his offer ? 

Gov. I must — I will — I can — I ought — I do, 

Tilb. Think what a noble price. 

Gov. No more — you urge in vain. 

Tilb. His liberty is all he asks." 

Sneer. All who asks, Mr. Puff ? Who is— 
Puff. Egad, sir, I can't tell ! Here has been 

such cutting and slashing, I don't know where 

they have got to myself. 

Tilb. Indeed, sir, you will find it will connect 

very well. 

" — And your reward secure." 

Puff. Oh, if they hadn't been so devilish free 
with their cutting here, you would have found that 
Don Whiskerandos has been tampering for his 
liberty, and has persuaded Tilburina to make this 
proposal to her father. And now, pray observe 
the conciseness with which the argument is con- 
ducted. Egad, the pro and con goes as smart as 
hits in a fencing-match. It is indeed a sort of 
small-sword logic, which we have borrowed from 
the French. 

" Tilb. A retreat in Spain ! 

Gov. Outlawry here ! 

Tilb. Your daughter's prayer ! 

Gov. Your father s oath ! 

Tilb. My lover ! 

Gov. My country ! 

Tilb. Tilburina! 

Gov. England! 

Tilb. A title ! 

Gov. Honour ! 

Tilb. A pension ! 

Gov. Conscience ! 

Tilb. A thousand pounds ! 

Gov. Ha ! thou hast touch'd me nearly ! " 

Puff. There you see — she threw in Tilburina, 
Quick, parry quarte with England ! — Ha ! thrust 
in tierce a title ! — parried by honour. Ha ! a pen- 
sion over the arm ! — put by by conscience. Then 
flankonade with a thousand pounds — and a palpa- 
ble hit, egad ! 

" Tilb. Canst thou — 
Reject the suppliant, and the daughter too ? 

Gov. No more ; I would not hear thee plead in vain : 
The father softens — but the governor 
lsfix'd! {.Exit." 

Dang. Ay, that antithesis of persons is a most 
established figure. 

" Tilb. 'Tis well, — hence then, fond hopes, — fond 
passion, hence ; 
Duty, behold I am all over thine — 

Whisk. {Without.'] Where is my love — my — 
Tilb. Ha ! 

Enter Don Fbrolo Whiskerandos. 
Whisk. My beauteous enemy ! — " 

Puff. O dear, ma'am, you must start a great 
deal more than that ! Consider, you had just 
determined in favour of duty — when, in a moment, 



the sound of his voice revives your passion — over- 
throws your resolution — destroys your obedience. 
If you don't express all that in your start, you do 
nothing at all. 

Tilb. Well, we'll try again ! 

Dang. Speaking from within has always a fine 
effect. 

Sneer. Very. 

" Whisk. My conquering Tilburina ! How ! is't thus 
We meet ? why are thy looks averse ? what means 
That falling tear — that frown of boding woe ? 
Ha ! now indeed I am a prisoner ! 
Yes, now I feel the galling weight of these 
Disgraceful chains — which, cruel Tilburina ! 
Thy doting captive gloried in before. — 
But thou art false, and Whiskerandos is undone I 

Tilb, O no ! how little dost thou know thy Tilbu- 
rina! 

Whisk. Art thou then true ? — Begone cares, doubts, 
and fears, 
I make you all a present to the winds ; 
And if the winds reject you — try the waves." 

Puff. The wind, you know, is the established 
receiver of all stolen sighs, and cast-off griefs and 
apprehensions. 

" Tilb. Yet must we part! — stern duty seals our 
doom : 
Though here I call yon conscious clouds to witness. 
Could I pursue the bias of my soul, 
All friends, all right of parents, I'd disclaim, 
And thou, my Whiskerandos, shouldst be father 
And mother, brother, cousin, uncle, aunt, 
And friend to me ! 

Whisk. Oh, matchless excellence ! and must we 
part ? 
Well, if — we must — we must — and in that case 
The less is said the better," 

Puff. Heyday ! here's a cut ! — What, are all 
the mutual protestations out? 

Tilb. Now, pray, sir, don't interrupt us just 
here : you ruin our feelings. 

Puff. Your feelings ! — but zounds, my feelings, 
ma'am ! 

Sneer. No ; pray don't interrupt them. 

" Whisk. One last embrace. — 
Tilb. Now, — farewell, for ever. 
Whisk. For ever! 

Tilb. Ay, for ever. 

{Going." 

Puff'. 'Sdeath and fury ! — Gad's life ! — sir ! 
madam ! if you go out without the parting look, 
you might as well dance out. — Here, here ! 

Con. But pray, sir, how am I to get off here ? 

Puff. You ! psha ! what the devil signifies how 
you get off ! edge away at the top, or where you 
will — [Pushes Confidant off.} Now, ma'am, you 
see — 

Tilb. We understand you, sir. 

" Ay, for ever. 
Both. Oh ! [Turning back, and exeunt — Scene closes." 

Dang. Oh, charming ! 

Puff. Hey ! — 'tis pretty well, I believe : you 
see I don't attempt to strike out anything new — 
but I take it I improve on the established modes. 

Sneer. You do, indeed ! But pray is not queen 
Elizabeth to appear ? 

K 



130 



THE CRITIC: OR. 



Puff. No, not once — but she is to be talked of 
for ever ; so that, egad, you'll think a hundred 
times that she is on the point of coming in* 

Sneer. Hang it, I think it's a pity to keep her 
in the green-room all the night. 

Puff. O no, that always has a fine effect — it 
keeps up expectation. 

Bang. But are we not to have a battle ? 

Puff. Yes, yes, you will have a battle at last ; 
but, egad, it's not to be by land, but by sea — and 
that is the only quite new thing in the piece. 

Dang. What, Drake at the Armada, hey ? 

Puff. Yes, i'faith— fire-ships and all ; then we 
shall end with the procession. Hey ! that will do, 
I think ? 

Sneer. No doubt on't. 

Puff. Come, we must not lose time ; so now 
for the. under-plot. 

Sneer. What the plague, have you another 
plot ? 

Puff. O Lord, yes ; ever while you live have 
two plots to your tragedy. The grand point in 
managing them is only to let your under-plot have 
as little connexion with your main-plot as possible. 
— I flatter myself nothing can be more distinct 
than mine ; for as in my chief plot the characters 
are all great people, I have laid my under-plot in 
low life ; and as the former is to end in deep dis- 
tress, I make the other end as happy as a farce. — 
Now, Mr. Hopkins, as soon as you please. 

Enter Under Prompter. 

Und. Promp. Sir, the carpenter says it is im- 
possible you can go to the park scene yet. 

Puff. The park scene ! no ! T mean the 
description scene here, in the wood. 

Und. Promp. Sir, the performers have cut it out. 

Puff. Cut it out ! 



Und. Promp. Yes, sir. 

Puff. What ! the whole account of queen 
Elizabeth ? 

Und. Promp. Yes, sir. 

Puff. And the description of her horse and side- 
saddle ? 

Und. Promp. Yes, sir. 

Puff. So, so ; this is very fine indeed ! — Mr. 
Hopkins, how the plague could you suffer this ? 

Mr. Hop. [Within.'] Sir, indeed the pruning- 
knife — 

Puff. The pruning-kife — zounds ! — the axe ! 
Why, here has been such lopping and topping, I 
shan't have the bare trunk of my play left pre- 
sently ! — Very well, sir — the performers must do 
as they please ; but, upon my soul, I'll print it 
every word. 

Sneer. That I would, indeed. 

Puff. Very well, sir ; then we must go on. — 
Zounds ! I would not have parted with the de- 
scription of the horse ! — Well, sir, go on.. — Sir, it 
was one of the finest and most laboured things. — 
Very well, sir ; let them go on. — There you had 
him and his accoutrements, from the bit to the 
crupper. — Very well, sir ; we must go to the park 
scene. 

Und. Promp. Sir, there is the point : the car- 
penters say, that unless there is some business put 
in here before the drop, they shan't have time to 
clear away the fort, or sink Gravesend and the river. 

Puff. So ! this is a pretty dilemma, truly ! — 
Gentlemen, you must excuse me — these fellows 
will never be ready, unless I go and look after 
them myself. 

Sneer. O dear, sir, these little things will 
happen. 

Puff. To cut out this scene ! — but I'll print it 
— egad, I'll print it every word ! [Exeunt. 



ACT III. 



SCENE J.— The Theatre, before the Curtain. 
Enter Puff, Sneer, and Dangle. 

Puff. Well, we are ready; now then for the 
justices. [Curtain rises. 

" Justices, Constables, %c., discovered." 

Sneer. This, I suppose, is a sort of senate scene. 

Puff. To be sure ; there has not been one yet. 

Dang. It is the under-plot, isn't it ? 

Puff. Yes. — What, gentlemen, do you mean to 
go at once to the discovery scene ? 

Just. If you please, sir. 

Puff. Oh, very well ! — Harkee, I don't choose 
to say anything more; but, i'faith, they have 
mangled my play in a most shocking manner. 

Dang. It's a great pity I 

Puff. Now, then, Mr. Justice, if you please. 

" Just. Are all the volunteers without ? 

Const. They are. 

Some ten in fetters, and some twenty drunk. 

Just. Attends the youth, whose most opprobrious 
fame 
And clear convicted crimes have stamp'd him soldier ? 

Const. He waits your pleasure; eager to repay 



The blest reprieve that sends him to the fields 
Of glory, there to raise his branded hand 
In honour's cause. \ 

Just. 'Tis well — 'tis justice arms him ! 

Oh ! may he now defend his country's laws 
With half the spirit he has broke them all ! 
If 'tis your worship's pleasure, bid him enter. 

Const. I fly, the herald of your will. {.Exit. 

Puff. Quick, sir ! 

Sneer. But, Mr. Puff, I think not only the Jus- 
tice, but the clown seems to talk in as high a style 
as the first hero among them. 

Puff. Heaven forbid they should not, in a free 
country ! — Sir, I am not for making slavish dis- 
tinctions, and giving all the fine language to the 
upper sort of people. 

Dang. That's very noble in you, indeed. 

" Ent-er Justice's Lady." 

Puff. Now, pray mark this scene. 

" Lady. Forgive this interruption, good my love ; 
But as I just now pass'd a prisoner youth, 
Whom rude hands hither lead, strange bodings seized 
My fluttering heart, and to myself I said, 



SCENE 



A TRAGEDY REHEARSED. 



13] 



An if our Tom had lived, he'd surely been 
This stripling's height ! 

Just. Ha ! sure some powerful sympathy directs 
Us both— 

Re-enter Constable with Son. 
What is thy name ? 
Son. My name is Tom Jenkins — alias, have I 
none — 
Though orphan 'd, and without a friend ! 

Just. Thy parents ? 

Son. My father dwelt in Rochester — and was, 
As I have heard — a fishmonger — no more." 

Puff. What, sir, do you leave out the account 
of your birth, parentage, and education ? 
Son. They have settled it so, sir, here. 
Puff. Oh! oh! 

" Lady. How loudly nature whispers to my heart ! 
Had he no other name ? 

Son. I've seen a bill 

Of his sign'd Tomkins, creditor. 

Just. This does indeed confirm each circumstance 
The gipsy told ! — Prepare ! 

Son. I do. 

Just. No orphan, nor without a friend art thou — 
I am thy father ; here's thy mother ; there 
Thy uncle — this thy first cousin, and those 
Are all your near relations ! 

Lady. ecstacy of bliss ! 

Son. O most unlook'd-for happiness ! 

Just. O wonderful event ! 

{They faint alternately in each other's arms." 

Puff. There, you see relationship, like murder, 
will out. 

" Just. Now let's revive — else were this joy too 
much ! 
But come — and we'll unfold the rest within ; 
And thou, my boy, must needs want rest and food. 
Hence may each orphan hope, as chance directs, 
To find a father — where he least expects ! \_Exeunt." 

Puff. What do you think of that ? 

Dang. One of the finest discovery-scenes I ever 
saw ! — Why, this under-plot would have made a 
tragedy itself. 

Sneer. Ay, or a comedy either. 

Puff. And keeps quite clear, you see, of the 
other. 

Enter Scenemen, taking away the seats. 

Puff. The scene remains, does it ? 

Sceneman. Yes, sir. 

Puff. You are to leave one chair, you know. — 
But it is always awkward in a tragedy, to have you 
fellows coming in in your playhouse liveries to re- 
move things. — I wish that could be managed better. 
— So now for my mysterious yeoman. 

" Enter Beefeater. 
Beef. Perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee." 

Sneer. Haven't I heard that line before ? 

Puff. No, I fancy not. — Where, pray ? 

Dang. Yes, I think there is something like it in 
Othello. 

Puff. Gad ! now you put me in mind on't, I 
believe there is — but that's of no consequence ; all 
that can be said is, that two people happened to 



hit on the same thought — and Shakspeare made 
use of it first, that's all. 

Sneer. Very true. 

Puff. Now, sir, your soliloquy — but speak more 
to the pit, if you please — the soliloquy always to 
the pit, that's a rule. 

" Beef. Though hopeless love finds comfort in 
despair, 
It never can endure a rival's bliss ! 
But soft — I am observed. [Exit." 

Dang. That's a very short soliloquy. 

Puff. Yes — but it would have been a great deal 
longer if he had not been observed. 

Sneer. A most sentimental Beefeater that, Mr. 
Puff! 

Puff. Hark'ee — I would not have you be too 
sure that he is a Beefeater. 

Sneer. What, a hero in disguise ? 

Puff. No matter — I only give you a hint. But 
now for my principal character. Here he comes — 
Lord Burleigh in person ! Pray, gentlemen, step 
this way — softly — I only hope the Lord High 
Treasurer is perfect — if he is but perfect ! 

" Enter Lord Burleigh, goes slowly to a chair, and sits." 

Sneer. Mr. Puff ! 

Puff. Hush ! — Vastly well, sir ! vastly well ! a 
most interesting gravity ! 

Dang. What, isn't he to speak at all ? 

Puff. Egad, I thought you'd ask me that ! — 
Yes, it is a very likely thing — that a minister in 
his situation, with the whole affairs of the nation 
on his head, should have time to talk ! — But hush ! 
or you'll put him out. 

Sneer. Put him out ! how the plague can that 
be, if he's not going to say anything ? 

Puff. There's the reason! why, his part is to 
think ; and how the plague do you imagine he can 
think if you keep talking ? 

Dang. That's very true, upon my word ! 

" Lord Burleigh comes forward, shakes his head, and 
exit." 

Sneer. He is very perfect indeed ! Now, pray 
what did he mean by that ? 

Puff. You don't take it ? 

Sneer. No, I don't, upon my soul. 

Puff. Why, by that shake of the head, he gave 
you to understand that even though they had more 
justice in their cause, and wisdom in their '•mea- 
sures — yet, if there was not a greater spirit shown 
on the part of the people, the country would at 
last fall a sacrifice to the hostile ambition of the 
Spanish monarchy. 

Sneer.. The devil ! did he mean all that by shak- 
ing his head ? 

Puff. Every word of it — if he shook his head as 
I taught him. t 

Dang. Ah ! there certainly is a vast deal to be 
done on the stage by dumb show and expression of 
face ; and a judicious author knows how much he 
may trust to it. 

Sneer. Oh, here are some of our old acquaint- 



" Enter Sir Christopher Hatton and Sir Walter 
Raleigh. 

Sir Christ. My niece, and your niece too ! 
K 2 



132 



THE CRITIC : OR, 



By Heaven! there's witchcraft in't. — He could not 

else 
Have gain'd their hearts. — But see where they ap- 
proach ; 
Some horrid purpose lowering on their brows ! 
Sir Walt. Let us withdraw, and mark them. 

[They withdraw" 

Sneer. What is all this ? 

Puff. Ah ! here has been more pruning ! — but 
the fact is, these two young ladies are also in love 
with Don Whiskerandos. — Now, gentlemen, this 
scene goes entirely for what we call situation and 
stage effect, by which the greatest applause may 
be obtained, without the assistance of language, 
sentiment, or character : pray mark ! 

" Enter the Nieces. 

1 Niece. Ellena here ! 

She is his scorn as much as I — that is 
Some comfort still !" 

Puff. O dear, madam, you are not to say that 
to her face ! — aside, ma'am, aside. — The whole 
scene is to be aside. 

" 1 Niece. She is his scorn as much as I — that is 
Some comfort still ! [Aside. 

2 Niece. I know he prizes not Pollina's love ; 
But Tilburina lords it o'er his heart. [Aside. 

1 Niece. But see, the proud destroyer of my peace. 
Revenge is all the good I've left. [Aside. 

2 Niece. He comes, the false disturber of my quiet. 
Now, vengeance, do thy worst. — Aside. 

Enter Don Ferolo Whiskerandos. 

Whisk. O hateful liberty — if thus in vain 
I seek my Tilburina ! 
Nieces. And ever shalt! 

Sir Christopher Hatton and Sir Walter Raleigh come 
forward. 

Sir Christ. Sir Walt. Hold ! we will avenge you. 
Whisk. Hold you — or see your nieces bleed ! 

[The two Nieces draw their two daggers to strike Whis- 
kerandos: the two Uncles at the instant, with their 
two swords drawn, catch their two Nieces' arms, and 
turn the points of their swords to Whiskerandos, who 
immediately draws two daggers, and holds them to the 
two Nieces' bosoms." 

Puff. There's situation for you ! there's an 
heroic group ! — You see the ladies can't stab 
Whiskerandos — he durst not strike them, for fear 
of their uncles — the uncles durst not kill him, be- 
cause of their nieces — I have them all at a dead 
lock ! — for every one of them is afraid to let go 
first. 

Sneer. Why, then they must stand there for 
ever! 

Puff. So they would, if I hadn't a very fine 
contrivance for't. — Now mind — 

" Enter Beefeater, with his halberd. 

Beef. In the queen's name I charge you all to drop 
Your swords and daggers ! 

[They drop their swords and daggers." 

Sneer. That is a contrivance indeed ! 
Puff. Ay — in the queen's name. 

" Sir Christ. Come, niece! 



Sir Walter. Come, niece ! 

[Exeunt with the two Nieces. 
Whisk. What's he, who bids us thus renounce our 

guard ? 
Beef. Thou must do more — renounce thy love ! 
Whisk. Thou liest — base Beefeater ! 
Beef. Ha ! hell ! the lie ! 

By Heaven, thou'st roused the lion in my heart ! 
Off, yeoman's habit ! — base disguise ! off ! off ! 
[Discovers himself, by throwing off his upper dress, and 
appearing in a very fine waistcoat. 
Am I a Beefeater now ? 
Or beams my crest as terrible as when 
In Biscay's Bay I took thy captive sloop?'' 

Puff. There, egad ! he comes out to be the very 
captain of the privateer who had taken Whisker- 
andos prisoner — and was himself an old lover of 
Tilburina's. 

Dang. Admirably managed, indeed ! 

Puff. Now, stand out of their way. 

"• Whisk. I thank thee, Fortune, that hast thus 
bestow'd 
A weapon to chastise this insolent. 

[Takes up one of the swords. 
Beef. I take thy challenge, Spaniard, and I thank 
thee, 
Fortune, too ! — [Takes up the other sword." 

Dang. That's excellently contrived ! — It seems 
as if the two uncles had left their swords on pur- 
pose for them. 

Puff. No, egad, they could not help leaving 
them. 

" Whisk. Vengeance and Tilburina ! 
Beef. Exactly so — 

[They fight — and after the usual number of wounds given, 
Whiskerandos falls. 

Whisk. cursed parry ! — that last thrust in tierce 
Was fatal. — Captain, thou hast fenced well ! 
And Whiskerandos quits this bustling scene 
For all eter — 

Beef. — nity — He would have added, but stern 
death 
Cut short his being, and the noun at once !" 

Puff. Oh, my dear sir, you are too slow : now 
mind me. — Sir, shall I trouble you to die again ? 

" Whisk. And Whiskerandos quits this bustling 
scene 
For all eter — 

Beef. — nity — He would have added " — 

Puff. No, sir — that's not it — once more, if you 
please. 

Whisk. I wish, sir, you would practise this with- 
out me — I can't stay dying here all night. 

Puff. Very well ; we'll go over it by-and-by — 
[Exit Whiskerandos.] I must humour these 
gentlemen ! 

" Beef. Farewell, brave Spaniard ! and when 
next" — 

Puff. Dear sir, you needn't speak that speech, 
as the body has walked off. 

Beef. That's true, sir— then I'll join the fleet. 

Puff. If you please. — [Exit Beefeater.] Now, 
who comes on ? 



SCENE 



A TRAGEDY REHEARSED. 



133 



" Enter Governor, with his hair properly disordered. 

Gov. A hemisphere of evil planets reign ! 
And every planet sheds contagious frenzy ! 
My Spanish prisonei is slain ! my daughter, 
Meeting the dead corse borne along, has gone 
Distract ! [^ loud flourish of trumpets. 

But hark ! I am summon'd to the fort : 
Perhaps the fleets have met ! amazing crisis ! 

Tilburina ! from thy aged father's heard. 

Thou'st pluck'd the few brown hairs which time had 
left ! [Exit." 

Sneer. Poor gentleman ! 

Puff'. Yes — and no one to blame but his daugh- 
ter ! 

Dang. And the planets — 

Puff. True. — Now enter Tilburina ! 

Sneer. Egad, the business comes on quick here. 

Puff. Yes, sir — now she comes in stark mad in 
white satin. 

Sneer. Why in white satin? 

Puff. O Lord, sir— when a heroine goes mad, 
she always goes into white satin. — Don't she, 
Dangle ? 

Dang. Always — it's a rule. 

Puff. Yes — here it is — [Looking at the book.] 
u Enter Tilburina stark mad in white satin, and 
her confidant stark mad in white linen." 

"Enter Tilburina and Confidant, mad, according to 
custom." 

Sneer. But, what the deuse, is the confidant to 
be mad too ? 

Puff. To be sure she is : the confidant is al- 
ways to do whatever her mistress does ; weep when 
she weeps, smile when she smiles, go mad when 
she goes mad. — Now, madam confidant — but keep 
your madness in the back-ground, if you please. 

" Tilb. The wind whistles — the moon rises — see, 
They have kill'd my squirrel in his cage ! 
Is this a grasshopper ? — Ha ! no ; it is my 
Whiskerandos — you shall not keep him — 

1 know you have him in your pocket — 

An oyster may he cross'd in love ! — Who says 

A whale's a bird ? — Ha ! did you call, my love ? — 

He's here ! he's there ! — He's everywhere ! 

Ah me ! he's nowhere ! [Exit." 

Puff. There, do you ever desire to see anybody 
madder than that ? 



Sneer. Never, while I live ! 
Puff. You observed how she mangled the metre ? 
Dang. Yes — egad, it was the first thing made 
me suspect she was out of her senses ! 
Sneer. And pray what becomes of her ? 
Puff. She is gone to throw herself into the 
sea, to be sure — and that brings us at once to the 
scene of action, and so to my catastrophe— my sea- 
fight, I mean. 

Sneer. What, you bring that in at last? 
Puff. Yes, yes — you know my play is called The 
Spanish Armada ; otherwise, egad, I have no 
occasion for the battle at all. — Now then for my 
magnificence ! — my battle ; — my noise ! — and my 
procession ! — You are all ready ? 
Und. Promp. [ Within. J Yes, sir. 
Puff. Is the Thames dressed ? 

" Enter Thames with two Attendants." 
Thames. Here I am, sir. 

Puff. Very well indeed! — See, gentlemen, there's 
a river for you ! — This is blending a little of the 
masque with my tragedy— a new fancy, you know 
— and very useful in my case ; for as there must 
be a procession, 1 suppose Thames, and all his tri- 
butary rivers, to compliment Britannia with a fete 
in honour of the victory. 

Sneer. But pray, who are these gentlemen in 
green with him ? 

Puff. Those ? — those are his banks. 
Sneer. His banks ? 

Puff. Yes, one crowned with alders, and the 
other with a villa ! — you take the allusions ? — But 
hey ! what the plague ! you have got both your banks 
on one side. — Here, sir, come round — Ever while 
you live, Thames, go between your banks. — [Bell 
rings.] There, so ! now for't. — Stand aside, my 
dear friends ! — Away, Thames. 

[Exit Thames between his banks. 
[Flourish of drums, trumpets, camion, Sfc. §c. Scene 
changes to the sea — the fleets engage — the music plays 
" Britons, strike home." — Spanish fleet destroyed by 
fire-ships, §c — English fleet advances — music plays 
" Rule Britannia." — Hie procession of all the English- 
rivers, and their tributaries, with their emblems, $c. 
begins with Handel's water music, ends with a chorus, 
to the march in Judas Maccabceus. — During this scene, 
Puff directs and applauds everything — then 

Puff. Well, pretty well — but not quite perfect. 
— So, ladies and gentlemen, if you please, we'll re- 
hearse this piece again to-morrow. [Curtain drops. 



PIZARHO. 

ADVERTISEMENT. 

As the two translations which have been published of Kotzebue's " Spaniards in Peru" have, I understand, been 
very generally read, the public are in possession of ajl the materials necessary to form a judgment on the merits and 
defects of the Play performed at Drury-lane Theatre. 



DEDICATION. 

To her, whose approbation of this Drama, and whose peculiar delight in the applause it has received from the public, 
have been to me the highest gratification derived from its success— I dedicate this Play. 

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS, 

AS ORTGINALLY ACTED AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE IN 1799. 



Ataltba Mr. Powell. 

Rolla Mr. Kemble. 

Orozembo ....... Mr.Dowton. 

Orano .'....... Mr. Archer. 

Alonzo • . Mr. C. Kemble. 

Pizarro Mr. Barrymore. 

Almagro Mr. CaulHeld. 

Gonzalo Mr. Wentworth. 

Da villa Mr. Trueman. 

Gomez , Mr. Surmont 

Yal verde Mr. R. Palmer. 

Las-Casas Mr. Aickin. 



Old Blind Man Mr. Cory. 

Boy Master Chatterley. 

Sentinel Mr. Holland. 

Attendant Mr. Maddocks. 

Cora Mrs. Jordan. 

Elvira . . Mrs. Siddons. 

Zuluga 

Peruvian Warriors, Women, and Children, High- 
priest, Priests, and Virgins of the Sun, Spanish 
Officers, Soldiers, Guards, &c. &c. 



SCENE,— Peru. 



PROLOGUE, 

WRITTEN BY RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 

SPOKEN BY MR. KING. 



Chill'd by rude gales, while yet reluctant May 
Withholds the beauties of the vernal day ; 
As some fond maid, whom matron frowns reprove, 
Suspends the smile her heart devotes to love ; 
The season's pleasures too delay their hour, 
And Winter revels with protracted power : 
Then blame not, critics, if, thus late, we bring 
A Winter Drama — but reproach — the Spring. 
What prudent cit dares yet the season trust, 
Bask in his whisky, and enjoy the dust ? 
Horsed in Cheapside, scarce yet the gayer spark 
Achieves the Sunday triumph of the Park ; 
Scarce yet you see him, dreading to be late, 
Scour the New-road, and dash through Grosvenor- 

gate :— 
Anxious — yet timorous too ! — his steed to show, 
The hack Bucephalus of Rotten-row. 



Careless he seems, yet, vigilantly sly, 
Woos the stray glance of ladies passing by, 
While his off heel, insidiously aside, 
Provokes the caper which he seems to chide, 
Scarce rural Kensington due honour gains ; 
The vulgar verdure of her walk remains ! 
Where white-robed misses amble two by two, 
Nodding to booted beaux — " How'do, how'do ?" 
With generous questions that no answer wait, 
" How vastly full ! An't you come vastly late ? 
In't it quite charming ? When do you leave town? 
An't you quite tired ? Pray, can we set you down ? " 
These suburb pleasures of a London May, 
Imperfect yet, we hail the cold delay ; 
Should our Play please — and you're indulgent 

ever — 
Be your decree — u 'Tis better late than never." 



SCENE I. 



P1ZARR0. 



135 



ACT I. 



SCENE I. — A Pavilion near Pizarro's Tent. 

Elvira discovered sleeping tinder a canopy. Valverde 
enters, gazes on Elvira, kneels., and attempts to kiss her 
hand ; Elvira, awakened, rises and looks at him with 
indignation. 

Elv. Audacious ! whence is thy privilege to 
interrupt the few moments of repose my harassed 
mind can snatch amid the tumults of this noisy 
camp ? Shall I inform your master of this pre- 
sumptuous treachery ? Shall I disclose thee to 
Pizarro ? hey ! 

Vol. I am his servant; it is true — trusted by 
him — and I know him well ; and therefore 'tis I 
ask, by what magic could Pizarro gain your heart ; 
by what fatality still holds he your affection ? 

Elv. Hold ! thou trusty secretary ! 

Val. Ignobly born ! in mind and manners rude, 
ferocious, and unpolished, though cool and crafty 
if occasion need — in youth audacious — ill his first 
manhood — a licensed pirate — treating men as 
brutes, the world as booty ; yet now the Spanish 
hero is he styled — the first of Spanish conquerors ! 
and for a warrior so accomplished, 'tis fit Elvira 
should leave her noble family, her fame, her home, 
to share the dangers, humours, and the crimes of 
such a lover as Pizarro ! 

Elv. What ! Valverde moralising ! But grant 
I am in error, what is my incentive ? Passion, 
infatuation, call it as you will ; but what attaches 
thee to this despised, unworthy leader? Base 
lucre is thy object, mean fraud thy means. Could 
you gain me, you only hope to win a higher interest 
in Pizarro. I know you. 

Val. On my soul, you wrong me ! what else my 
faults, I have none towards you. But indulge the 
scorn and levity of your nature ; do it while yet 
the time permits; the gloomy hour, I fear, too 
soon approaches. 

Elv. Valverde, a prophet too ! 

Val. Hear me, Elvira. Shame from his late 
defeat, and burning wishes for revenge, again have 
brought Pizarro to Peru ; but trust me, he over- 
rates his strength, nor measures well the foe. 
Encamped in a strange country, where terror 
cannot force, nor corruption buy a single friend, 
what have we to hope ? The army murmuring at 
increasing hardships, while Pizarro decorates with 
gaudy spoil the gay pavilion of his luxury ! each 
day diminishes our force. 

Elv. But are you not the heirs of those that fall ? 

Val. Are gain and plunder then our only pur- 
pose ? Is this Elvira's heroism ? 

Elv. No, so save me Heaven ! I abhor the 
motive, means, and end of your pursuits ; but I 
will trust none of you. In your whole army there 
is not one of you that has a heart, or speaks inge- 
nuously : aged Las-Casas, and he alone, excepted. 

Val. He ! an enthusiast in the opposite and 
worse extreme ! 

Eh. Oh ! had I earlier known that virtuous 
man, how different might my lot have been ! 

Val. I will grant, Pizarro could not then so 
eisily have duped you : forgive me, but at that 
event I still must wonder. 



Elv. Hear me, Valverde. When first my virgin 
fancy waked to love, Pizarro was my country's 
idol. Self-taught, self-raised, and self-supported, 
he became a hero ; and I was formed to be won 
by glory and renown. 'Tis known that when he 
left Panama in a slight vessel, his force was not a 
hundred men. Arrived in the island of Gallo, 
with his sword he drew a line upon the sands, and 
said, " Pass those who fear to die or conquer with 
their leader." Thirteen alone remained, and at 
the head of these the warrior stood his ground. 
Even at the moment when my ears first caught 
this tale, my heart exclaimed, " Pizarro is its 
lord ! " What since I have perceived, or thought, 
or felt, you must have more worth to win the 
knowledge of. 

Val. I press no further, still assured that while 
Alonzo de Molina, our general's former friend and 
pupil, leads the enemy, Pizarro never more will be 
a conqueror. iTrumpets without. 

Elv. Silence ! I hear him coming : look not 
perplexed. How mystery and fraud confound the 
countenance ! Quick, put on an honest face, if 
thou canst. 

Piz. [ Without, .] Chain and secure him ; I will 
examine him myself. 

Enter Pizarro. Valverde botes — Flvira laughs. 

Piz. Why dost thou smile, Elvira ? 

Elv. To laugh or weep without a reason, is one 
of the few privileges poor women have. 

Piz. Elvira, I will know the cause, I am re- 
solved ! 

Elv. I am glad of that, because I love reso- 
lution, and am resolved not to tell you. Now my 
resolution, I take it, is the better of the two, 
because it depends upon myself, and yours does not. 

Piz. Psha I trifler ! 

Val. Elvira was laughing at mv apprehensions 
that— 

Piz. Apprehensions 1 

Val. Yes — that Alonzo' s skill and genius should 
so have disciplined and informed the enemy, as 
to— 

Piz. Alonzo ! the traitor ! How I once loved 
that man ! His noble mother entrusted him, a boy, 
to my protection. At my table did he feast — in 
my tent did he repose. I had marked his early 
genius, and the valorous spirit that grew with it. 
Often I had talked to him of our first adventures 
— what storms we struggled with — what perils we 
surmounted ! When landed with a slender host 
upon an unknown land — then, when I told how 
famine and fatigue, discord and toil, day by day, 
did thin our ranks amid close-pressing enemies, how 
still undaunted I endured and dared — maintained 
my purpose and my power in despite of growling 
mutiny or bold revolt, till with my faithful few re- 
maining I became at last victorious ! — When, I say 
of these things I spoke, the youth Alonzo, with tears 
of wonder and delight, would throw him on my 
neck, and swear his soul's ambition owned no other 
leader. 

Val. Wnat could subdue attachment so began ? 

Piz, Las-Casas. — He it was, with fascinating 



13G 



PIZARRO. 



craft and canting precepts of humanity, raised in 
Alonzo's mind a new enthusiasm, which forced 
him, as the stripling termed it, to forego his coun- 
try's claims for those of human nature. 

Val. Yes, the traitor left you, joined the Peru- 
vians, and became thy enemy and Spain's. 

Piz. But first with weariless remonstrance he 
sued to win me from my purpose, and untwine the 
sword from my determined grasp. Much he spoke 
of right, of justice, and humanity, calling the Peru- 
vians our innocent and unoffending brethren. 

Val. They ! obdurate heathens ! they our 
brethren ! 

Piz. But when he found that the soft folly of 
the pleading tears he dropped upon my bosom fell on 
marble, he flew and joined the foe : then, profiting 
by the lessons he had gained in wronged Pizarro's 
school, the youth so disciplined and led his new 
allies, that soon he forced me — ha ! I burn with 
shame and fury while I own it ! in base retreat and 
foul discomfiture to quit the shore. 

Val. But the hour of revenge is come. 

Piz. It is ; I am returned : my force is strength- 
ened, and the audacious boy shall soon know that 
Pizarro lives, and has — a grateful recollection of the 
thanks he owes him. 

Val. 'Tis doubted whether still Alonzo lives. 

Piz. 'Tis certain that he does; one of his 
armour-bearers is just made prisoner : twelve 
thousand is their force, as he reports, led by Alonzo 
and Peruvian Rolla. This day they make a solemn 
sacrifice on their ungodly altars. We must profit 
by their security, and attack them unprepared — the 
sacrificers shall become the victims. 

Elv. Wretched innocents '. And their own 
blood shall bedew their altars ! 

Piz. Right ! — [Trumpets without.] Elvira, 
retire ! 

Elv. Why should I retire ? 

Piz. Because men are to meet here, and on 
manly business. 

Elv, O men ! men ! ungrateful and perverse ! 
O woman ! still affectionate though wronged ! The 
beings to whose eyes you turn for animation, hope, 
and rapture, through the days of mirth and re- 
velry ; and on whose bosoms in the hour of sore 
calamity you seek for rest and consolation ; them, 
when the pompous follies of your mean ambition 
are the question, you treat as playthings or as 
slaves ! — I shall not retire. 

Piz. Remain then ; and, if thou canst, be 
silent. 

Elv. They only babble who practise not reflec- 
tion. I shall think — and thought is silence. 

Piz. [Aside.'] Ha! there's somewhat in her 
manner lately — 

[Looks sternly and suspiciously at Elvira, who meets his 
glance with a commanding and unaltered eye. 

Enter Las-Casas, Almagro, Gonzalo, Davilla, Officers 
and Soldiers. — Trumpets without. 

Las-Cas. Pizarro, we attend your summons. 

Piz. Welcome, venerable father ! — My friends, 
most welcome ! — Friends and fellow soldiers, at 
length the hour is arrived, which to Pizarro's hopes 
presents the full reward of our undaunted enter- 
prise and long-enduring toils. Confident in security, 
this day the foe devotes to solemn sacrifice : if with 
bold surprise we strike on their solemnity — trust to 
your leader's word— we shall not fail. 



Aim. Too long inactive have we been mouldering 
on the coast ; our stores exhausted, and our sol- 
diers murmuring. Battle ! battle ! — then death 
to the armed, and chains for tne defenceless. 

Dav. Death to the whole Peruvian race ! 

Las-Cas. Merciful Heaven ! 

Aim. Yes, general, the attack, and instantly! 
Then shall Alonzo, basking at his ease, soon cease 
to scoff our suffering and scorn our force. 

Las-Cas. Alonzo ! — scorn and presumption are 
not in his nature. 

Aim. 'Tis fit Las-Casas should defend his pupil. 

Piz. Speak not of the traitor ! or hear his name 
but as the bloody summons to assault and ven- 
geance. It appears we are agreed ? 

Aim. Dav. We are. 

Gon. All— Battle 1 battle ! 

Las-Cas. Is then the dreadful measure of your 
cruelty not yet complete ? Battle ! gracious 
Heaven ! against whom ? Against a king, in whose 
mild bosom your atrocious injuries even yet have 
not excited hate ! but who, insulted or victorious, 
still sues for peace. Against a people who never 
wronged the living being their Creator formed : a 
people who, children of innocence ! received you 
as cherished guests with eager hospitality and con- 
fiding kindness. Generously and freely did they 
share with you their comforts, their treasures, and 
their homes : you repaid them by fraud, oppression, 
and dishonour. , These eyes have witnessed all I 
speak — as gods you were received ; as fiends have 
you acted. 

Piz. Las-Casas ! 

Las-Cas. Pizarro, hear me! — Hear me, chief- 
tains ! — And thou, all-powerful ! whose thunders 
can shiver into sand the adamantine rock — whose 
lightnings can pierce to the core of the rived and 
quaking earth — oh ! let thy power give effect to 
thy servant's words, as thy spirit gives courage to 
his will ! Do not, I implore you, chieftains — 
countrymen — do not, I implore you, renew the 
foul barbarities which your insatiate avarice has 
inflicted on this wretched, unoffending race ! — But 
hush, my sighs ! — fall not, drops of useless sorrow ! 
— heart-breaking anguish, choke not my utterance ! 
— All I entreat is, send me once more to those you 

call your enemies Oh ! let me be the messenger 

of penitence from you ; v I shall return with bless- 
ings and with peace from them. — Elvira, you 
weep ! — Alas ! and does this dreadful crisis move 
no heart but thine ? 

Aim. Because there are no women here but she 
and thou. 

Piz. Close this idle war of words : time flies, and 
our opportunity will be lost. Chieftains, are ye 
for instant battle ? 

Aim. We are. 

Las-Cas. Oh, men of blood !— [Kneels.] God ! 
thou hast anointed me thy servant— not to curse, 
but to bless my countrymen : yet now my blessing 
on their force were blasphemy against thy good- 
ness. — [Rises. ] No ! I curse your purpose, homi- 
cides ! I curse the bond of blood by which you 
are united. May fell division, infamy, and rout, 
defeat your projects and rebuke your hopes ! On 
you, and on your children, be the peril of the inno- 
cent blood which shall be shed this day ! I leave 
you, and for ever ! No longer shall these aged 
eyes be seared by the horrors they have witnessed. 
In caves, in forests, will I hide myself ; with tigers 



PIZARRO. 



137 



and with savage beasts will I commune : and when 
at length we meet again before the blessed tribunal 
of that Deity, whose mild doctrines and whose 
mercies ye have this day renounced, then shall you 
feel the agony and grief of soul which tear the 
bosom of your accuser now ! [Going. 

Elv. Las-Casas ! Oh ! take me with thee, Las- 
Casas. 

Las- C as. Stay ! lost, abused lady ! I alone am 
useless here. Perhaps thy loveliness may persuade 
to pity, where reason and religion plead in vain. 
Oh ! save thy innocent fellow-creatures if thou 
canst : then shall thy frailty be redeemed , and thou 
wilt share the mercy thou bestowest. [Exit. 

Piz. Hew, Elvira ! wouldst thou leave me ? 

Elv. I am bewildered, grown terrified ! Your 
inhumanity — and that good Las-Casas — oh ! he 
appeared to me just now something more than 
heavenly : and you ! ye all looked worse than 
earthly. 

Piz. Compassion sometimes becomes a beauty. 

Elv. Humanity always becomes a conqueror. 

Aim. Well ! Heaven be praised, we are rid of 
the old moralist. 

Gon. I hope he'll join his preaching pupil, 
Alonzo. 

Piz. Now to prepare our muster and our march. 
At midday is the hour of the sacrifice. Consulting 
with our guides, the route of your divisions shall be 
given to each commander. If we surprise, we 
conquer ; and if we conquer, the gates of Quito 
will be open to us. 

Aim. And Pizarro then be monarch of Peru. 

Piz. Not so fast — ambition for a time must take 
counsel from discretion. Ataliba still must hold 
the shadow of a sceptre in his hand. Pizarro still 
appear dependent upon Spain : while the pledge of 
future peace, his daughter's hand, secures the 
proud succession to the crown 1 seek. 

Aim. This is best. In Pizarro's plans observe 
the statesman's wisdom guides the warrior's valour. 

Vol. [Aside to Elvira..] You mark, Elvira ? 

Elv. O yes — this is best — this is excellent ! 

Piz. You seem offended. Elvira still retains my 
heart. Think — a sceptre waves me on. 

Elv. Offended ? — no ! Thou knowest thy glory 
is my idol ; and this will be most glorious, most 
just and honourable. 

Piz. What mean you ? 

Elv. Oh, nothing! — mere woman's prattle — a 
jealous whim, perhaps : but let it not impede the 
royal hero's course. — [Trumpets without.'] The 
call of arms invites you. — Away ! away! you, his 
brave, his worthy fellow-warriors. 

Piz. And go you not with me ? 

Elv. Undoubtedly ! I needs must be the first 
to hail the future monarch of Peru. 

Enter Gomez. 

Aim. How, Gomez ! what bringest thou ? 

Gom. On yonder hill among the palm trees we 
have surprised an old cacique : escape by flight he 
could not, and we seized him and his attendant un- 
resisting ; yet his lips breathe naught but bitterness 
and scorn. 

Piz. Drag him before us. — [Gomez goes out 
and returns with Orozembo and Attendant, in 
chains, guarded.] What art thou, stranger ? 

Oro. First tell me which among you is the captain 
of this band of robbers. 



Piz. Ha! 

Aim. Madman ! — Tear out his tongue, or else — 

Oro. Thou'lt hear some truth. 

Dav. [Showing his poniard.] Shall I not plunge 
this into his heart ? 

Oro. [To Pizarro.] Does your army boast 
many such heroes as this ? 

Piz. Audacious ! this insolence has sealed thy 
doom. Die thou shalt, grey-headed ruffian. But 
first confess what thou knowest. 

Oro. I know that which thou hast just assured 
me of — that I shall die. 

Piz. Less audacityperhaps might have preserved 
thy life. 

Oro. My life is as a withered tree ; it is not 
worth preserving. 

Piz. Hear me, old man. Even now we march 
against the Peruvian army. We know there is a 
secret path that leads to your stronghold among 
the rocks : guide us to that, and name thy reward. 
If wealth be thy wish — 

Oro. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Piz. Dost thou despise my offer ? 

Oro. Thee and thy offer ! — Wealth ! — I have the 
wealth of two dear gallant sons — I have stored in 
heaven the riches which repay good actions here — 
and still my chiefest treasure do I bear about me. 

Piz. What is that ? inform me. 

Oro. I will ; for it never can be thine— the trea- 
sure of a pure unsullied conscience. 

Piz. I believe there is no other Peruvian who 
dares speak as thou dost. 

Oro. Would I could believe there is no other 
Spaniard who dares act as thou dost ! 

Gon. Obdurate Pagan ! — How numerous is your 
army ? 

Oro. Count the leaves of yonder forest. 

Aim. Which is the weakest part of your camp ? 

Oro. It has no weak part ; on every side 'tis 
fortified by justice. 

Piz. Where have you concealed your wives and 
your children ? 

Oro. In the hearts of their husbands and their 
fathers. 

Piz. Knowest thou Alonzo ? 

Oro. Know him ! Alonzo ! Know him ! Our 
nation's benefactor ! the guardian angel of Peru ! 

Piz. By what has he merited that title ? 

Oro. By not resembling thee. 

Aim. Who is this Holla, joined with Alonzo in 
command ? 

Oro. I will answer that ; for I love to hear and 
to repeat the hero's name. Rolla, the kinsman of 
the king, is the idol of our army ; in war a tiger, 
chafed by the hunter's spear ; in peace more gentle 
than the unweaned lamb. Cora was once betrothed to 
him ; but finding she preferred Alonzo, he resigned 
his claim, and, I fear, his peace, to friendship and 
to Cora's happiness ; yet still he loves her with a 
pure and holy fire. 

Piz. Romantic savage ! — 1 shall meet this Rolla 
soon. 

Oro. Thou hadst better not ! the terrors of his 
noble eye would strike thee dead. 

Dav. Silence, or tremble ! 

Oro. Beardless robber 1 I never yet have trem- 
bled before God ; why should I tremble before 
man ? why before thee, thou less than man ! 

Dav. Another word, audacious heathen, and I 
strike ! 



138 



PIZARRO. 



Oro. Strike, Christian ! Then boast among thy 
fellows — I too have murdered a Peruvian ! 

Dav. Hell and vengeance seize thee ! [Stabs him. 

Pis. Hold! 

Dav. Couldst thou longer have endured his 
insults ? 

Piz. And therefore should he die untortured ? 

Oro. True ! — Observe, young man — your un- 
thinking rashness has saved me from the rack ; 
and you yourself have lost the opportunity of a 
useful lesson ; you might have seen with what 
cruelty vengeance would have inflicted torments — 
and with what patience virtue would have borne 
them. 

Eh. [Supporting Orozembo's head upon her 
bosom.] Oh, ye are monsters all ! — Look up, thou 
martyred innocent — look up once more, and bless 
me ere thou diest. God ! how I pity thee ! 

Oro. Pity me ! — me ! so near my happiness ! 
Bless thee, lady ! — Spaniards— Heaven turn your 
hearts, and pardon you as I do. 

Piz, Away! — [Orozembo is borne off dying.] 
Davilla ! if thus rash a second time — 

Dav. Forgive the hasty indignation which — 

Piz. No more ! — Unbind that trembling wretch 
■ — let him depart : 'tis well he should report the 
rrercy which we show to insolent defiance. — Hark ! 
our troops are moving. 

Attend. [On passing Elvira.] If through 
your gentle means my master's poor remains might 
be preserved from insult— 

Eh. I understand you. 

Attend. His sons may yet thank your charity, 
if not avenge their father's fate. [Exit. 

Piz. What says the slave ? 

Elv. A. parting word to thank you for your 
mercy. 

Piz. Our guard and guides approach. — [Soldiers 
march through the tents. ~\ Follow me, friends — 



each shall have his post assigned, and ere Peruvia's 
god shall sink beneath the main, the Spanish ban- 
ner, bathed in blood, shall float above the wails of 
vanquished Quito. 

[Exeunt all but Elvira and Valverde. 

Vol. Is it now presumption that my hopes gain 
strength with the increasing horrors which 1 see 
appal Elvira's soul ? 

Elv. I am mad with terror and remorse ! 
Would I could fly these dreadful scenes ! 

Vol. Might not Valverde's true attachment be 
thy refuge ? 

Elv. What wouldst thou do to save or to avenge 
me ? 

Vol. I dare do all thy injuries may demand — a 
word — and he lies bleeding at your feet. 

Elv. Perhaps we will speak again of this. Now 
leave me. — [Exit Valverde.] No ! not this 
revenge — no! not this instrument. Fy, Elvira! 
even for a moment to counsel with this unworthy 
traitor ! — Can a wretch, false to a confiding master, 
be true to any pledge of love or honour ? — Pizarro 
will abandon me — yes ; me— who, for his sake, have 
sacrificed — oh, God ! what have I not sacrificed 
for him ! Yet, curbing the avenging pride that 
swells this bosom, I still will further try him. Oh, 
men ! ye who, wearied by the fond fidelity of vir- 
tuous love, seek in the wanton's flattery a new 
delight, oh, ye may insult and leave the hearts to 
which your faith was pledged, and, stifling self- 
reproach, may fear no other peril ; because such 
hearts, howe'er you injure and desert them, have 
yet the proud retreat of an unspotted fame — of 
unreproaching conscience. But beware the des- 
perate libertine who forsakes the creature whom 
his arts have first deprived of all natural protection 
— of all self-consolation ! What has he left her ? — 
Despair and vengeance ! [Exit. 



ACT II. 



SCENE I. — A Bank surrounded by a wild wood, 
and rocks. 

Cora is discovered playing with Tier Child : Alonzo hang- 
ing over them with delight. 

Cora. Now confess, does he resemble thee, or 
not? 

Alon. Indeed he is liker thee — thy rosy soft- 
ness, thy smiling gentleness. 

Cora. But his auburn hair, the colour of his 
eyes, Alonzo. — Oh, my lord's image, and my 
heart's adored ! [Presses the Child to her bosom. 

Alon. The little daring urchin robs me, I 
doubt, of some portion of thy love, my Cora. At 
least he shares caresses, which till his birth were 
only mine. 

Cora. Oh no. Alonzo ! a mother's love for her 
sweet babe is not a stealth from the dear father's 
store ; it is a new delight that turns with quick- 
ened gratitude to Him, the author of her aug- 
mented bliss. 

Alon. Could Cora think me serious ? 

Cora. I am sure he will speak soon : then will 



be the last of the three holidays allowed by Nature's 
sanction to the fond anxious mother's heart. 

Alon. What are those three ? 

Cora. The ecstacy of his birth I pass ; that in 
part is selfish : but when first the white blossoms 
of his teeth appear, breaking the crimson buds 
that did incase them ; that is a day of joy : next, 
when from his father's arms he runs without sup- 
port, and clings, laughing and delighted, to his 
mother's knee ; that is the mother's heart's next 
holiday : and sweeter still the third, whene'er his 
little stammering tongue shall utter the grateful 
sound of father ! mother ! — Oh, that is the dearest 
joy of all ! 

Alon. Beloved Cora ! 

Cora. Oh, my Alonzo ! daily, hourly, do I 
pour thanks to Heaven for the dear blessing I pos- 
sess in him and thee. 

Alon. To Heaven and Rolla ! 

Cora. Yes, to Heaven and Rolla : and art thou 
not grateful to them too, Alonzo ? art thou not 
happy ? 

Alon. Can Cora ask that question ? 



SCENE II. 



PIZARRO. 



139 



Cora. Why then of late so restless on thy 
couch ? Why to my waking, watching ear so 
often does the stillness of the night betray thy 
struggling sighs ? 

A Ion. Must not I fight against my country, 
against my brethren ? 

Cora. Do they not seek our destruction ; and 
are not all men brethren ? 

A Ion. Should they prove victorious ? 

Cora. I will fly, and meet thee in the moun- 
tains. 

Alon. Fly, with thy infant, Cora ? 

Cora. What ! think you a mother, when she 
runs from danger, can feel the weight of her 
child ? 

Alon. Cora, my beloved, do you wish to set my 
heart at rest ? 

Cora. Oh yes ! yes ! yes ! 

Alon. Hasten then to the concealment in the 
mountains ; where all our matrons and virgins, and 
our warriors' offspring, are allotted to await the 
issue of the war. Cora will not alone resist her 
husband's, her sisters', and her monarch's wish. 

Cora. Alonzo, I cannot leave you. Oh ! how 
in every moment's absence would my fancy paint 
you, wounded, alone, abandoned ! No, no, I 
cannot leave you. 

Alon. Rolla will be with me. 

Cora. Yes, while the battle rages, and where it 
rages most, brave Rolla will be found. He may 
revenge, but cannot save thee. To follow danger, 
he will leave even thee. But I have sworn never 
to forsake thee but with life. Dear, dear Alonzo ! 
can you wish that I should break my vow ? 

Alon. Then be it so. Oh ! excellence in all 
that's great and lovely, in courage, gentleness, and 
truth ; my pride, my content, my all ! Can there 
on this earth be fools who seek for happiness, and 
pass by love in the pursuit ? 

Cora. Alonzo, I cannot thank you : silence is 
the gratitude of true affection : who seeks to fol- 
low it by sound will miss the track. — {Shout with- 
out.'] Does the king approach ? 

Alon. No, 'tis the general placing the guard 
that will surround the temple during the sacrifice. 
'Tis Rolla comes, the first and best of heroes. 

[Trumpets sound. 

Rol. [Without.] Then place them on the hill 
fronting the Spanish camp. 

Enter Rolla. 

Cora. Rolla ! my friend, my brother ! 

Alon. Rolla ! my friend, my benefactor ! how 
can our lives repay the obligations which we owe 
you ? 

Rol. Pass them in peace and bliss. Let Rolla 
witness it, he is overpaid. 

Cora. Look on this child. He is the life-blood 
of my heart ; but if ever he loves or reveres thee 
less than his own father, his mother's hate fall on 
him ! 

Rol. Oh, no more ! What sacrifice have I 
made to merit gratitude ? The object of my love 
was Cora's happiness. I see her happy. Is not 
my object gained, and am I not rewarded ? Now, 
Cora, listen to a friend's advice, You must away; 
you must seek the sacred caverns, the unpro- 
faned recess, whither, after this day's sacrifice, 
our matrons, and e'en the virgins of the sun, 
retire. 



Cora. Not secure with Alonzo and with thee' 
Rolla ? 

Rol. We have heard Pizarro's plan is to sur- 
prise us. Thy presence, Cora, cannot aid, but may 
impede our efforts. 

Cora. Impede ! 

Rol. Yes, yes. Thou knowest how tenderly we 
love thee ; we, thy husband and thy friend. Art 
thou near us ? our thoughts, our valour — vengeance 
will not be our own. No advantage will be pur- 
sued that leads us from the spot where thou art 
placed ; no succour will be given but for thy pro- 
tection. The faithful lover dares not be all him- 
self amid the war, until he knows that the beloved 
of his soul is absent from the peril of the fight. 

Alon. Thanks to my friend ! 'tis this I would 
have urged. 

Cora. This timid excess of love, producing fear 
instead of valour, flatters, but does not convince 
me : the wife is incredulous. 

Rol. And is the mother unbelieving too ? 

Cora. No more ! do with me as you please. 
My friend, my husband ! place me where you will. 

Alon. My adored ! we thank you both. — 
[March without.'] Hark! the king approaches 
to the sacrifice. You, Rolla, spoke of rumours of 
surprise. A servant of mine, I hear, is missing ; 
whether surprised or treacherous, I know not. 

Rol. It matters not. We are everywhere pre- 
pared. Come, Cora, upon the altar 'mid the 
rocks thou'lt implore a blessing on our cause. 
The pious supplication of the trembling wife, and 
mother's heart, rises to the throne of mercy, the 
most resistless prayer of human homage. [.Exeunt. 



SCENE II.— The Temple of the Sun. 

The High -priest, Priests, and Virgins of the Sun discovered. 
A solemn march. Ataliba and the Peruvian Warriors 
enter on one side, on the other Rolla, Alonzo, and Cora 
with the Child. 

Ata. Welcome, Alonzo ! — [To Rolla.] Kins- 
man, thy hand. — [To Cora.] Blessed be the ob- 
ject of the happy mother's love. 

Cora. May the sun bless the father of his 
people ! 

Ata. In the welfare of his children lives the 
happiness of their king. — Friends, what is the 
temper of our soldiers ? 

Rol. Such as becomes the cause which they sup- 
port ; their cry is, Victory or death ! our king ! 
our country ! and our God ! 

Ata. Thou, Rolla, in the hour of peril, hast 
been wont to animate the spirit of their leaders, 
ere we proceed to consecrate the banners which 
thy valour knows so well to guard. 

Rol. Yet never was the hour of peril near, when 
to inspire them words were so little needed. My 
brave associates — partners of my toil, my feelings, 
and my fame ! — can Rolla' s words add vigour to 
the virtuous energies which inspire your hearts ? 
No ! You have judged, as I have, the foulness of 
the crafty plea by which these bold invaders would 
delude you. Your generous spirit has compared, 
as mine has, the motives which, in a war like this, 
can animate their minds and ours. They, by a 
strange frenzy driven, fight for power, for plunder, 
and extended rule : we, for our country, our altars, 



140 



PIZARRO. 



and our homes. They follow an adventurer whom 
they fear, and obey a power which they hate : we 
serve a monarch whom we love — a God whom we 
adore. Whene'er they move in anger, desolation 
tracks their progress ! Where'er they pause in 
amity, affliction mourns their friendship. They 
boast they come but to improve our state, enlarge 
our thoughts, and free us from the yoke of error ! 
Yes : they will give enlightened freedom to our 
minds ! who are themselves the slaves of passion, 
avarice, and pride. They offer us their protection : 
yes, such protection as vultures give to lambs — 
covering and devouring them ! They call on us to 
barter all of goods we have inherited and proved, 
for the desperate chance of something better which 
they promise. Be our plain answer this : — The 
throne we honour is the people's choice ; the laws 
we reverence are our brave fathers' legacy ; the 
faith we follow teaches us to live in bonds of cha- 
rity with all mankind, and die with hope of bliss 
beyond the grave. Tell your invaders this, and 
tell them too, we seek no change ; and, least of all, 
such change as they would bring us. 

{Loud shouts of the Peruvian Warriors. 
Ata. [Embracing Rolla.] Now, holy friends, 
ever mindful of these sacred truths, begin the 
sacrifice. — [A solemn procession commences. The 
Priests and Virgins arrange themselves on either 
side of the altar, which the High-priest approaches, 
and the solemnity begins. The invocation of the 
High-priest is followed by the choimses of the 
Priests and Virgins. Fire from above lights upon 
the altar. The whole assembly rise, and join in 
the thanksgiving.'] Our offering is accepted. Now 
to arms, my friends ; prepare for battle. 

Enter Orano. 

Ora. The enemy ! 

Ata. How near ? 

Ora. From the hill's brow, e'en now as I o'er- 
looked their force, suddenly 1 perceived the whole 
in motion : with eager haste they march towards 
our deserted camp, as if apprised of this most 
solemn sacrifice. 

Rol. They must be met before they reach it. 

Ata. And you, my daughters, with your dear 
children, away to the appointed place of safety. 

Cora. Oh, Alonzo! [Embracing him. 

Alon. We shall meet again. 

Cora. Bless us once more ere you leave us. 

Alon. Heaven protect and bless thee, my be- 
loved ; and thee, my innocent ! 

Ata. Haste, haste ! each moment is precious ! 

Cora. Farewell, Alonzo ! Remember thy life 
is mine. 

Rol. Not one farewell to Rolla ? 

Cora. [Giving him her hand.'] Farewell! The 
god of war be with you : but bring me back 
Alonzo. [Exit with the Child. 

Ata. [Draws his sword.] Now, my brethren, 
my sons, my friends, I know your valour. Should 
ill success assail us, be despair the last feeling of 
your hearts. If successful, let mercy be the first. 
— Alonzo, to you I give to defend the narrow pas- 
sage of the mountains. On the right of the wood 
be Holla's station. For me, straight forwards will 
I march to meet them, and fight until I see my 
people saved, or they behold their monarch fall. 
Be the word of battle — God ! and our native land. 
[A march. Exeunt. 



SCENE III.— A Wood between the Temple and 
the Camp. 

Enter Rolla and Alonzo. 

Rol. Here, my friend, we separate — soon, I 
trust, to meet again in triumph. 

Alon. Or perhaps we part to meet no more. — 
Rolla, a moment's pause ; we are yet before our 
army's strength ; one earnest word at parting. 

Rol. There is in language now no word but 
battle. 

Alon. Yes, one word more — Cora ! 

Rol. Cora ! — speak ! 

Alon. The next hour brings us — 

Rol. Death or victory ! 

Alon. It may be victory to one — death to the 
other. 

Rol. Or both may fall. 

Alon. If so, my wife and child I bequeath to 
the protection of Heaven and my king. But 
should I only fall, Rolla, be thou my heir. 

Rol. How? 

Alon. Be Cora thy wife — be thou a father to 
my child. 

Rol. Rouse thee, Alonzo ! banish these timid 
fancies. 

Alon. Rolla ! I have tried in vain, and cannot 
fly from the foreboding which oppresses me : thou 
knowest it will not shake me in the fight : but give 
me the promise I exact. 

Rol. If it be Cora's will — yes — I promise. 

[Gives his hand. 

Alon. Tell her it was my last wish ; and bear to 
her and to my son my last blessing ! 

Rol. I will. — Now then to our posts, and let 
our swords speak for us. [They draw their swords. 

Alon. For the king and Cora ! 

Rol. For Cora and the king. 

[Exeunt severally. Alarms without. 



SCENE IV.— The Peruvian Camp. 
Enter an Old blind Man and a Boy. 

Old Man. Have none returned to the camp ? 

Boy. One messenger alone. From the temple 
they all marched to meet the foe. 

Old Man. Hark ! I hear the din of battle. Oh, 
had I still retained my sight, I might now have 
grasped a sword, and died a soldier's death ! — Are 
we quite alone ? 

Roy. Yes ! — I hope my father will be safe ! 

Old Man. He will do his duty. I am more 
anxious for thee, my child. 

Boy. I can stay with you, dear grandfather. 

Old Man. But should the enemy come, they 
will drag thee from me, my boy. 

Boy. Impossible, grandfather ! for they will see 
at once that you are old and blind, and cannot do 
without me. 

Old Man. Poor child ! you little know the hearts 
of these inhuman men. — [Discharge of cannon 
heard.] Hark! the noise is near. I hear the 
dreadful roaring of the fiery engines of these cruel 
strangers. — [Shouts at a distance.] At every shout, 
with involuntary haste I clench my hand, and fancy 
still it grasps a sword ! Alas ! i can only serve 
my country by my prayers. Heaven preserve the 
lnea and his gallant soldiers ! 



SCENE IV. 



PIZARRO. 



141 



Boy. O father ! there are soldiers running — 

Old Man. Spaniards, boy ? 

Boy. No, Peruvians ! 

Old Man. How ! and flying from the field ! — It 
cannot be. 

Enter two Peruvian Soldiers. 
Oh, speak to tbem, boy ! — whence come you ? How 
goes the battle? 

Sold. We may not stop ; we are sent for the 
reserve behind the hill. The day's against us. 

[Exeunt Soldiers. 

Old Man. Quick, then, quick ! 

Boy. I see the points of lances glittering in the 
light. 

Old Man. Those are Peruvians. Do they bend 
this way ? 

Enter a Peruvian Soldier. 

Boy. Soldier, speak to my blind father. 

Sold. I'm sent to tell the helpless father to 
retreat among the rocks : all will be lost, I fear. 
The king is wounded. 

Old Man. Quick, boy ! Lead me to the hill, 
where thou mayst view the plain. [Alarms. 

Enter Ataliba, wounded, with Orano, Officers, and 
Soldiers. 

Ata. My wound is bound ; believe me, the hurt 
is nothing : I may return to the fight. 

Ora. Pardon your servant ; but the allotted 
priest who attends the sacred banner has pro- 
nounced that the Inca's blood once shed, no bless- 
ing can await the day until he leave the field. 

Ata. Hard restraint ! — Oh my poor brave 
soldiers ! Hard that I may no longer be a witness 
of their valour. — But haste you ; return to your 
comrades : I will not keep one soldier from his 
post. Go, and avenge your fallen brethren. — 
[Exeunt Orano, Officers, and Soldiers.] I will 
not repine ; my own fate is the last anxiety of 
my heart. It is for you, my people, that I feel and 
fear. 

Old Man. [Coming forward.] Did I not hear 
the voice of an unfortunate ? — Who is it complains 
thus ? 

Ata. One almost by hope forsaken. 

Old Man. Is the king alive ? 

Ata. The king still lives. 

Old Man. Then thou art not forsaken ! Ataliba 
protects the meanest of his subjects. 

Ata. And who shall protect Ataliba? 

Old Man. The immortal powers, that protect 
the just. The virtues of our monarch alike secure 
to him the affection of his people and the benign 
regard of Heaven. 

Ata. How impious, had I murmured ! How 
wondrous, thou supreme Disposer, are thy acts ! 
Even in this moment, which I had thought the 
bitterest trial of mortal suffering, thou hast infused 
the sweetest sensation of my life — it is the assurance 
of my people's love. [Aside. 

Boy. [ Turning forward.] O father ! — Stranger ! 
see those hideous men that rush upon us yonder ! 

Ata. Ha ! Spaniards ! and I Ataliba — ill-fated 
fugitive, without a sword even to try the ransom of 
a monarch's life. 

Enter Da villa, Almagro, and Spanish Soldiers. 

Dav. 'Tis he — our hopes are answered — I know 
him well — it is the king ! 

Aim. Away ! Follow with your prize. Avoid 



those Peruvians, though in flight. This way we 
may regain our line. 

[Exeunt Davilla, Almagro, and Soldiers, with 
Ataliba prisoner. 

Old Man. The king ! — Wretched old man, that 
could not see his gracious form! — Boy, would 
thou hadst led me to the reach of those ruffians' 
swords ! 

Boy. Father ! all our countrymen are flying here 
for refuge. 

Old Man. No — to the rescue of their king — 
they never will desert him. [Alarms without. 

Enter Peruvian Officers and Soldiers, flying across the 
stage ; Orano following . 

Ora. Hold, I charge you ! Rolla calls you. 

Officer. We cannot combat with their dreadful 
engines. 

Enter Rolla. 

Rol. Hold ! recreants ! cowards ! — What, fear 
ye death, and fear not shame ? By my soul's fury, 
I cleave to the earth the first of you that stirs, or 
plunge your dastard swords into your leader's heart, 
that he no more may witness your disgrace. Where 
is the king ? 

Ora. From this old man and boy I learn that the 
detachment of the enemy, which you observed so 
suddenly to quit the field, have succeeded in sur- 
prising him ; they are yet in sight. 

Rol. And bear the Inca off a prisoner ? — Hear 
this, ye base, disloyal rout ! Look there ! The dust 
you see hangs on the bloody Spaniards' track,, drag- 
ging with ruffian taunts your king, your father — - 
Ataliba in bondage ! Now fly, and seek your own 
vile safety, if you can. 

Old Man. Bless the voice of Rolla — and bless 
the stroke I once lamented, but which now spares 
these extinguished eyes the shame of seeing the 
pale trembling wretches who dare not follow Rolla 
though to save their king ! 

Rol. Shrink ye from the thunder of the foe — 
and fall ye not at this rebuke ? Oh ! had ye each 
but one drop of the loyal blood which gushes to 
waste through the brave heart of this sightless 
veteran ! Eternal shame pursue you, if you desert 
me now ! — But do — alone I go — alone — to die with 
glory by my monarch's side ! 

Soldiers. Rolla ! we'll follow thee. 
[Trumpets sound; Rolla rushes out, followed by 
Orano, Officers, and Soldiers. 

Old Man. O godlike Rolla! — And thou sun, 
send from thy clouds avenging lightning to his aid ! 
Haste, my boy ; ascend some height, and tell to my 
impatient terror what thou seest. 

Boy. I can climb this rock, and the tree above. 
— [Ascends a rock, and from thence into the tree.] 
Oh — now I see them — now — yes — and the 
Spaniards turning by the steep. 

Old Man. Rolla follows them ? 

Boy. He does — he does — he moves like an 
arrow ! — Now he waves his arm to our soldiers. — 
[Report of cannon heard.] Now there is fire and 
smoke. 

Old Man. Yes, fire is the weapon of those 
fiends. 

Boy. The wind blows off the smoke : they are 
all mixed together. 

Old Man. Seest thou the king ? 

Boy. Yes — Rolla is near him ! — His sword sheds 
fire as he strikes ! 



142 



PIZARRO. 



Old Man. Bless thee, Rolla ! Spare not the 
monsters. 

Boy. Father ! father ! the Spaniards fly ! — Oh 
— now I see the king embracing Rolla. 

[Waves his cap for joy. Shouts of victory, flourish of 
trumpets, Sjc. 

Old Man. [Falls on his knees.'] Fountain of 
life ! how can my exhausted breath bear to thee 
thanks for this one moment of my life ! — My boy, 
come down, and let me kiss thee — my strength is 
gone ! 

Boy. [Running to the Old Man.] Let me help 
you, father. — You tremble so — 

Old Man. 'Tis with transport, boy ! 

[Boy leads the Old Man off. Shouts, flourish, 8$c. 

Re-enter Ataliba, Rolla, and Peruvian Officers and 
Soldiers. 

Ata. In the name of my people, the saviour of 
whose sovereign you have this day been, accept this 
emblem of his gratitude. — [Giving Rolla his sun 
of diamonds.'] The tear that falls upon it may for 
a moment dim its lustre, yet does it not impair the 
value of the gift. 



Rol. It was the hand of Heaven, not mine, that 
saved my king. 

Enter Peruvian Officer and Soldiers. 

Rol. Now, soldier, from Alonzo ? 

Off. Alonzo' s genius soon repaired the panic 
which early broke our ranks ; but I fear we have to 
mourn Alonzo' s loss : his eager spirit urged him too 
far in the pursuit ! 

Ata. How ! Alonzo slain ? 

1 Sold. I saw him fall. 

2 Sold. Trust me, I beheld him up again and 
fighting — he was then surrounded and disarmed. 

Ata. O victory, dearly purchased ! 

Rol. O Cora ! who shall tell thee this ? 

Ata. Rolla, our friend is lost — our native country 
saved ! Our private sorrows must yield to the 
public claim for triumph. Now go we to fulfil the 
first, the most sacred duty which belongs to victory 
— to dry the widowed and the orphaned tear of 
those whose brave protectors have perished in their 
country's cause. [Triumphant march, and exeunt 



ACT III. 



SCENE I. — A wild Retreat among stupendous 
rocks. 

Cora and her Child, with other Wives and Children of the 
Peruvian Warriors, discovered. They sing alternately, 
stanzas expressive of their situation, with a Chorus, in 
which all join. 

1 Worn. Zuluga, seest thou nothing yet ? 

Zul. Yes, two Peruvian soldiers — one on the 
hill, the other entering the thicket in the vale. 

2 Worn. One more has passed.— He comes — but 
pale and terrified. 

Cora. My heart will start from my bosom. 
Enter a Peruvian Soldier, panting for breath. 
Worn. Well ! joy or death ? 
Sold. The battle is against us. The king is 
wounded, and a prisoner. 
Worn. Despair and misery ! 
Cora. [In a faint voice.'] And Alonzo ? 
Sold. I have not seen him. 

1 Worn. Oh ! whither must we fly ? 

2 Worn. Deeper into the forest. 
Cora. I shall not move. 

2 Sold. [Without.] Victory! victory! 

Enter another Peruvian Soldier. 
2 Sold. Rejoice ! rejoice ! we are victorious ! 
Worn. [Springing up.] Welcome ! welcome, 
thou messenger of joy : — but the king ! 

2 Sold. He leads the brave warriors, who ap- 
proach. 
[The triumphant march of the army is heard at a dis- 
tance. The Women and Children join in a strain 
expressive of anxiety and exultation. 

Enter the Peruvian Warriors, singing the Seng of Victory. 
Ataxiba and Rolla follow, and are greeted ivith raptu- 
rous shouts. Cora, with her Child in her arms, runs 
through the ranks searching for Alonzo. 

Ata. Thanks, thanks, my children ! I am well : 
believe it ; the blood once stopped, my wound was 
nothing. 



Cora. [ To Rolla.] Where is Alonzo ?— [Rol- 
la turns away in silence.] Give me my husband ; 
give this child his father. [Falls at Ataliba's feet. 

Ata. I grieve that Alonzo is not here. 

Cora. Hoped you to find him ? 

Ata. Most anxiously. 

Cora. Ataliba ! is he not dead ? 

Ata. No ! the gods will have heard our prayers. 

Cora. Is he not dead, Ataliba ? 

Ata. He lives — in my heart. 

Cora. O king ! torture me not thus ! — Speak 
out, is this child fatherless ? 

Ata. Dearest Cora ! do not thus dash aside the 
little hope that still remains. 

Cora. The little hope ! yet still there is hope ! 
— Speak to me, Rolla : you are the friend of truth. 

Rol. Alonzo has not been found. 

Cora. Not found ! what mean you ? will not you, 
Rolla, tell me truth ? Oh ! let me not hear the 
thunder rolling at a distance ; let the bolt fall and 
crush my brain at once. Say not that he is not 
found : say at once that he is dead. 

Rol. Then should T say false. 

Cora. False ! blessings on thee for that word ! 
But snatch me from this terrible suspense. Lift 
up thy little hands, my child ; perhaps thy igno- 
rance may plead better than thy mother's agony. 

Rol. Alonzo is taken prisoner. 

Cora. Prisoner ! and by the Spaniards ? — Pizar- 
ro's prisoner ? — Then is he dead. 

Ata. Hope better; — the richest ransom which 
our realm can yield a herald shall this instant bear. 

Peruv. Worn. Oh ! for Alonzo's ransom — our 
gold, our gems ! — all ! all ! — Here, dear Cora, — 
here ! here ! 

[The Peruvian Women eagerly tear off all their orna 
merits, and offer them to Cora. 

Ata. Yes, for Alonzo's ransom they would give 
all !— I thank thee, Father, who hast given me such 
hearts to rule over 1 



SCENE III. 



PIZARRO. 



143 



Cora. Now one boon more, beloved monarch. 
Let me go with the herald. 

Ata. Remember, Cora, thou art not a wife 
only, but a mother too : hazard not your own 
honour, and the safety of your infant. Among 
these barbarians the sight of thy youth, thy love- 
liness, and innocence, would but rivet faster your 
Alonzo's chains, and rack his heart with added fears 
for thee. Wait, Cora, the return of the herald. 

Cora. Teach me how to live till then. 

Ata. Now we go to offer to the gods thanks for 
our victory, and prayers for our Alonzo's safety. 

{March and procession. Exeunt. 



SCENE II.— The Wood. 

Enter Cora and Child. 
Cora. Mild innocence, what will become of thee ? 
Enter Rolla. 

Rol. Cora, I attend thy summons at the ap- 
pointed spot. 

Cora. O my child, my boy ! — hast thou still a 
father ? 

Rol. Cora, can thy child be fatherless, while 
Rolla lives ? 

Cora. Will he not soon want a mother too ? — 
For canst thou think I will survive Alonzo's loss ? 

Rol. Yes ! for his child's sake. — Yes, as thou 
didst love Alonzo, Cora, listen to Alonzo's friend. 

Cora. You bid me listen to the world. — Who 
was not Alonzo's friend ? 

Rol. His parting words — 

Cora. His parting words ! — [ Wildly.'] Oh, 
speak ! 

Rol. Consigned to me two precious trusts — his 
blessing to his son, and a last request to thee. 

Cora. His last request ! his last ! — Oh, name it ! 

Rol. If I fall, said he (and sad forebodings shook 
him while he spoke,) promise to take my Cora for 
thy wife ; be thou a father to my child. — I pledged 
my word to him, and we parted. Observe me, Cora, 
I repeat this only, as my faith to do so was given 
to Alonzo : for myself, I neither cherish claim nor 
hope. 

Cora. Ha ! does my reason fail me, or what is 
this horrid light that presses on my brain ? O 
Alonzo ! it may be thou hast fallen a victim to thy 
own guileless heart : hadst thou been silent, hadst 
thou not made a fatal legacy of these wretched 
charms — 

Rol. Cora ! what hateful suspicion has pos- 
sessed thy mind ? 

Cora. Yes, yes, 'tis clear ! — his spirit was en- 
snared ; he was led to the fatal spot, where mortal 
valour could not front a host of murderers. He 
fell — in vain did he exclaim for help to Rolla. At 
a distance you looked on and smiled : you could 
have saved him— could — but did not. 

Rol. Oh, glorious sun ! can I have deserved this ? 
— Cora, rather bid me strike this sword into my 
heart. 

Cora. No !— live ! live for love !— for that love 
thou seekest ; whose blossoms are to shoot from 
the bleeding grave of thy betrayed and slaughtered 
friend ! But thou hast borne to me the last words 
of my Alonzo ! now hear mine. Sooner shall this 



boy draw poison from this tortured breast — sooner 
would I link me to the pallid corse of the meanest 
wretch that perished with Alonzo, than he call 
Rolla father — than I call Rolla husband ! 

Rol. Yet call me what I am — thy friend, thy 
protector ! 

Cora. [Distractedly."] Away ! I have no pro- 
tector but my God ! With this child in my arms 
will I hasten to the field of slaughter : there with 
these hands will I turn up to the light every man- 
gled body, seeking, howe'er by death disfigured, the 
sweet smile of my Alonzo : with fearful cries I will 
shriek out his name till my veins snap ! If the 
smallest spark of life remain, he will know the voice 
of his Cora, open for a moment his unshrouded 
eyes, and bless me with a last look. But if we find 
him not — oh ! then, my boy, we will to the Spanish 
camp — that look of thine will win me passage 
through a thousand swords — they too are men. Is 
there a heart that could drive back the wife that 
seeks her bleeding husband ; or the innocent babe 
that cries for his imprisoned father ? No, no, my 
child, everywhere we shall be safe. A wretched 
mother, bearing a poor orphan in her arms, has 
nature's passport through the world. Yes, yes., 
my son, we'll go and seek thy father. 

{Exit with the Child. 

Rol. [After a pause of agitation.] Could I have 
merited one breath of thy reproaches, Cora, I 
should be the wretch I think I was not formed to 
be. Her safety must be my present purpose — then 
to convince her she has wronged me ! {Exit. 



SCENE III.— Pizarro's Tent. 

Pizarro discovered, traversing the scene in gloomy and 
furious agitation. 

Piz. Well, capricious idol, Fortune, be my ruin 
thy work and boast. To myself I will still be true. 
Yet ere I fall, grant me thy smile to prosper in one 
act of vengeance, and be that smile Alonzo's death. 

Enter Elvira. 

Who's there ? who dares intrude ? Why does my 
guard neglect their duty ? 

Elv. Your guard did what they could — but they 
knew their duty better than to enforce authority, 
when I refused obedience. 

Piz. And what is it you desire ? 

Elv. To see how a hero bears misfortune. Thou, 
Pizarro, art not now collected — not thyself. 

Piz. Wouldst thou I should rejoice that the 
spears of the enemy, led by accursed Alonzo, have 
pierced the bravest hearts of my followers ? 

Elv. No ! I would have thee cold and dark as 
the night that follows the departed storm ; still and 
sullen as the awful pause that precedes nature's con-' 
vulsion : yet I would have thee feel assured that a 
new morning shall arise, when the warrior's spirit 
shall stalk forth — nor fear the future, nor lament 
the past. 

Piz. Woman ! Elvira ! — Why had not all my 
men hearts like thine ? 

Elv. Then would thy brows have this day worn 
the crown of Quito. 

Piz. Oh ! hope fails me while that scourge of 
my life and fame, Alonzo, leads the enemy. 

Elv. Pizarro, I am come to probe the hero far- 



144 



PIZARRO. 



ACT III. 



ther : not now his courage, but his magnanimity. 
— Alonzo is your prisoner. 

Piz. How ! 

Elv. 'Tis certain ; Valverde saw him even now 
dragged in chains within your camp. I chose to 
bring you the intelligence myself. 

Piz. Bless thee, Elvira, for the news ! — Alonzo 
in my power ! — then I am the conqueror — the vic- 
tory is mine ! 

Elv. Pizarro,thisis savage and unmanly triumph. 
Believe me, you raise impatience in my mind to see 
the man whose valour and whose genius awe Pi- 
zarro ; whose misfortunes are Pizarro's triumph ; 
whose bondage is Pizarro's safety. 

Piz. Guard! 

Enter Guard. 
Drag here the Spanish prisoner, Alonzo ! Quick, 
bring the traitor here. [Exit Guard. 

Elv. What shall be his fate ? 

Piz. Death ! death ! in lingering torments ! 
protracted to the last stretch that burning ven- 
geance can devise, and fainting life sustain. 

Elv. Shame on thee ! Wilt thou have it said 
that the Peruvians found Pizarro could not con- 
quer till Alonzo felt that he could murder ? 

Piz. Be it said — I care not. His fate is sealed. 

Elv. Follow then thy will : but mark me ;. if 
basely thou dost shed the blood of this brave youth, 
Elvira's lost to thee for ever. 

Piz. Why this interest for a stranger ? what is 
Alonzo's fate to thee ? 

Elv. His fate, nothing ! thy glory, everything ! 
— Thinkest thou I could love thee stripped of fame, 
of honour, and a just renown ? — Know me better. 

Piz. Thou shouldst have known me better. 
Thou shouldst have known, that, once provoked to 
hate, I am for ever fixed in vengeance. 

Re-enter Guard with Alonzo in chains. 

Welcome, welcome, Don Alonzo de Molina ! 'tis 
long since we have met : thy mended looks should 
speak a life of rural indolence. How is it that 
amid the toils and cares of war thou dost preserve 
the healthful bloom of careless ease ? Tell me thy 
secret. 

Alon. Thou wilt not profit by it. Whate'er the 
toils or cares of war, peace still is here. 

[Putting his hand to 7iis heart, 

Piz. Sarcastic boy ! 

Elv. Thou art answered rightly. Why sport 
with the unfortunate ? 

Piz. And thou art wedded too, I hear ; ay, and 
the father of a lovely boy — the heir, no doubt of 
all his father's loyalty, of all his mother's faith. 

Alon. The heir, I trust, of all his father's scorn 
of fraud, oppression, and hypocrisy — the heir, I 
hope, of all his mother's virtue, gentleness, and 
truth — the heir, I am sure, to all Pizarro's hate. 

Piz. Really ! Now do I feel for this poor or- 
phan ; for fatherless to-morrow's sun shall see that 
child. Alonzo, thy hours are numbered. 

Elv. Pizarro — no ! 

^iz. Hence — or dread my anger. 

Elv. I will not hence ; nor do I dread thy anger. 

Alon. Generous loveliness ! spare thy unavailing 
pity. Seek not to thwart the tiger with his prey 
beneath his fangs. 

Piz. Audacious rebel ! thou a renegado from thy 
monarch and thy God ! 



Alon. 'Tis false ! 

Piz. Art thou not, tell me, a deserter from thy 
country's legions — and, with vile heathens leagued, 
hast thou not warred against thy native land ? 

Alon. No ! deserter I am none ! I was not born 
among robbers ! pirates ! murderers ! — When those 
legions, lured by the abhorred lust of gold, and by 
thy foul ambition urged, forgot the honour of Cas- 
tilians, and forsook the duties of humanity, they 
deserted me. I have not warred against my native 
land, but against those who have usurped its 
power. The banners of my country, when first I 
followed arms beneath them, were justice, faith, 
and mercy. If these are beaten down and trampled 
under foot, I have no country, nor exists the power 
entitled to reproach me with revolt. 

Piz. The power to judge and punish thee at 
least exists. 

Alon. Where are my judges ? 

Piz. Thou wouldst appeal to the war council ? 

Alon. If the good Las-Casas have yet a seat 
there, yes ; if not, I appeal to Heaven ! 

Piz. And to impose upon the folly of Las- 
Casas, what would be the excuses of thy treason ? 

Elv. The folly of Las-Casas ! — Such, doubtless, 
his mild precepts seem to thy hard-hearted wisdom ! 
Oh, would I might have lived as I will die, a 
sharer in the follies of Las-Casas ! 

Alon. To him I should not need to urge the 
foul barbarities which drove me from your side ; 
but I would gently lead him by the hand through 
all the lovely fields of Quito ; there, in many a spot 
where late was barrenness and waste, I would show 
him how now the opening blossom, blade, or per- 
fumed bud, sweet bashful pledges of delicious 
harvest, wafting their incense to the ripening sun, 
give cheerful promise to the hope of industry. This, 
I would say, is my work ! Next I should tell how 
hurtful customs and superstitions, strange and sul- 
len, would often scatter and dismay the credulous 
minds of these deluded innocents ; and then would 
I point out to him where now, in clustered villages, 
they live like brethren, social and confiding, while 
through the burning day Content sits basking on 
the cheek of Toil, till laughing Pastime leads them 
to the hour of rest — this too is mine ! And 
prouder yet, at that still pause between exertion 
and repose, belonging not to pastime, labour, or to 
rest, but unto Him who sanctions and ordains them 
all, I would show him many an eye, and many a 
hand, by gentleness from error won, raised in pure 
devotion to the true and only God ! — this too I 
could tell him is Alonzo's work ! Then would 
Las-Casas clasp me in his aged arms ; from his 
uplifted eyes a tear of gracious thankfulness would 
fall upon my head, and that one blessed drop would 
be to me at* once this world's best proof, that I had 
acted rightly here, and surest hope of my Creator's 
mercy and reward hereafter. 

Elv. Happy, virtuous Alonzo ! — And thou, 
Pizarro, wouldst appal with fear of death a man 
who thinks and acts as he does ! 

Piz. Daring, obstinate enthusiast ! But know 
the pious blessing of thy preceptor's tears does not 
await thee here : he has fled like thee— like thee, 
no doubt, to join the foes of Spain. The perilous 
trial of the next reward you hope is nearer than 
perhaps you've thought ; for, by my country's 
wrongs, and by mine own, to-morrow's sun shall see 
thy death ! 



SCENE III. 



PIZARRO. 



146 



Elv. Hold ! Pizarro, hear me : if not always 
justly, at least act always greatly. Name not thy 
country's wrongs ; 'tis plain they have no share in 
thy resentment. Thy fury 'gainst this youth is 
private hate, and deadly personal revenge ; if this 
be so, and even now thy detected conscience in that 
look avows it, profane not the name of justice or 
thy country's cause, but let him arm, and bid him 
to the field on equal terms. 

Piz. Officious advocate for treason— peace ! — 
I Bear him hence ; he knows his sentence. 

Alon. Thy revenge is eager, and I'm thankful 
for it — to me thy haste is mercy. — For thee, sweet 
pleader in misfortune's cause, accept my parting 
thanks. This camp is not thy proper sphere. Wert 
thou among yon savages, as they are called, thou'dst 
find companions more congenial to thy heart. 

Piz. Yes ; she shall bear the tidings of thy death 
to Cora. 

Alon. Inhuman man ! that pang, at least, might 

have been spared me ; but thy malice shall not 

shake my constancy. I go to death — many shall 

bless, and none will curse my memory. Thou still 

i wilt live, and still wilt be — Pizarro. [Exit, guarded. 

Elv. Now, by the indignant scorn that burns 
i upon my cheek, my soul is shamed and sickened at 
the meanness of thy vengeance ! 

Piz. What has thy romantic folly aimed at ? 
I He is mine enemy, and in my power. 

Elv. He is in your power, and therefore is no 
more an enemy. Pizarro, I demand not of thee 
virtue, I ask not from thee nobleness of mind, I 
require only just dealing to the fame thou hast 
acquired: be not the assassin of thine own renown. 
How often have you sworn, that the sacrifice which 
thy wondrous valour's high report had won you 
from subdued Elvira, was the proudest triumph of 
your fame ! Thou knowest I bear a mind not cast 
in the common mould, not formed for tame se- 
questered love, content mid household cares to 
prattle to an idle offspring, and wait the dull delight 
of an obscure lover's kindness : no ! ray heart was 
framed to look up with awe and homage to the 
object it adored ; my ears to own no music but the 
thrilling records of his praise : my lips to scorn 
all babbling but the tales of his achievements ; my 
brain to turn giddy with delight, reading the ap- 
plauding tributes of his monarch's and his country's 
gratitude ; my every faculty to throb with trans- 
port, while I beard the shouts of acclamation 
which announced the coming of my hero ; my whole 
soul to love him with devotion ! with enthusiasm ! 
to see no other object — to own no other tie — but 
to make him my world ! Thus to love is at least 
no common weakness. Pizarro ! was not such my 
love for thee ? 

Piz. It was, Elvira ! 

Elv. Then do not make me hateful to myself, 
by tearing off the mask at once, baring the hideous 
imposture that has undone me ! Do not an act 
which, howe'er thy present power may gloss it to 
the world, will make thee hateful to all future ages 
— accursed and scorned by posterity. 

Piz. And should posterity applaud my deeds, 
thinkest thou my mouldering bones would rattle 
then with transport in my tomb ? This is renown 
for visionary boys to dream of, I understand it not. 
The fame I value shall uplift my living estimation, 
o'erbear with popular support the envy of my foes, 
advance my purposes, and aid my power. 



Elv. Each word thou speakest, each moment 
that I hear thee, dispels the fatal mist through 
which I've judged thee. Thou man of mighty 
name but little soul, I see thou wert not born to 
feel what genuine fame and glory are. Go ! prefer 
the flattery of thy own fleeting day to the bright 
circle of a deathless name : — go ! prefer to stare 
upon the grain of sand on which you trample, to 
musing on the starred canopy above thee. Fame, 
the sovereign deity of proud ambition, is not to 
be worshipped so : who seeks alone for living 
homage, stands a mean canvasser in her temple's 
porch, wooing promiscuously from the fickle 
breath of every wretch that passes, the brittle 
tribute of his praise. He dares not approach the 
sacred altar — no noble sacrifice of his is placed 
there, nor ever shall his worshipped image, fixed 
above, claim for his memory a glorious immortality. 

Piz. Elvira, leave me. 

Elv. Pizarro, you no longer love me. 

Piz. It is not so, Elvira. But what might I not 
suspect — this wondrous interest for a stranger ! — 
Take back thy reproach. 

Elv. No, Pizarro ; as yet I am not lost to you ; 
one string still remains, and binds me to your fate. 
Do not, I conjure you, do not, for thine own sake, 
tear it asunder, shed not Alonzo's blood ! 

Piz. My resolution's fixed. 

Elv. Even though that moment lost you Elvira 
for ever ? 

Piz. Even so. 

Elv. Pizarro, if not to honour, if not to hu- 
manity, yet listen to affection ; bear some memory 
of the sacrifices I have made for thy sake. Have 
I not for thee quitted my parents, my friends, my 
fame, my native land ? When escaping, did I not 
risk in rushing to thy arms to bury myself in the 
bosom of the deep ? Have I not shared all thy 
perils, heavy storms at sea, and frightful 'scapes 
on shore ? Even on this dreadful day, amid the 
rout of battle, who remained firm and constant at 
Pizarro's side ? Who presented her bosom as his 
shield to the assailing foe ? 

Piz. 'Tis truly spoken all. In love thou art 
thy sex's miracle, in war the soldier's pattern; 
and therefore my whole heart and half my acquisi- 
tions are thy right. 

Elv. Convince me I possess the first ; I ex- 
change all title to the latter for — mercy to Alonzo. 

Piz. No more ! Had I intended to prolong 
his doom, each word thou utterest now would 
hasten on his fate. 

Elv. Alonzo then at morn will die ? 

Piz. Thinkest thou yon sun will set ? As 
surely at his rising shall Alonzo die. 

Elv. Then be it done — the string is cracked — 
sundered for ever. But mark me — thou hast 
heretofore had cause, 'tis true, to doubt my reso- 
lution, howe'er offended ; but mark me now— the 
lips which, cold and jeering, barbing revenge with 
rancorous mockery, can insult a fallen enemy, 
shall never more receive the pledge of love : the 
arm which, unshaken by its bloody purpose, shall 
assign to needless torture the victim who avows 
his heart, never more shall press the hand of faith ! 
Pizarro, scorn not my words, beware you slight 
them not ! I feel how noble are the motives which 
now animate my thoughts. Who could not feel 
as I do, I condemn : who, feeling so, yet would 
not act as I shall, I despise ! 
L 



146 



PIZARRO. 



Piz. I have heard thee, Elvira, and know well 
the noble motives which inspire thee — fit advocate 
in virtue's cause ! Believe me, I pity thy tender 
feelings for the youth Alonzo ! — He dies at sun- 
rise ! [Exit. 

Elv. 'Tis well ! 'tis just I should be humbled — 
I had forgot myself, and in the cause of innocence 
assumed the tone of virtue. 'Twas fit I should be 
rebuked — and by Pizarro. Fall, fall ye few reluc- 
tant drops of weakness — the last these eyes shall 
ever shed. How a woman can love, Pizarro, thou 
hast known too well — how she can hate, thou hast 
yet to learn. Yes, thou undaunted ! thou, whom 
yet no mortal hazard has appalled ! thou, who on 



Panama's brow didst make alliance with the raving 
elements that tore the silence of that horrid night" 
when thou didst follow, as thy pioneer, the crash- 
ing thunder's drift ; and, stalking o'er the trembling 
earth, didst plant thy banner by the red volcano's 
mouth ! thou, who when battling on the sea, and 
thy brave ship was blown to splinters, wast seen, 
as thou didst bestride a fragment of the smoking 
wreck, to wave thy glittering sword above thy 
head, as thou wouldst defy the world in that 
extremity ! come, fearless man ! now meet the 
last and fellest peril of thy life ; meet and survive 
— an injured woman's fury, if thou canst. [Exit. 



ACT IV. 



SCENE I.— A Dungeon. 



Alonzo is discovered in chains. A Sentinel walking near. 

Alon. For the last time I have beheld the sha- 
dowed ocean close upon the light. For the last 
time, through my cleft dungeon's roof, I now 
behold the quivering lustre of the stars. For the 
last time, O sun ! and soon the hour I shall behold 
thy rising, and thy level beams melting the pale 
mists of morn to glittering dew-drops. Then 
comes my death, and in the morning of my day I 
fall, which — No, Alonzo, date not the life which 
thou hast run by the mean reckoning of the hours 
and days which thoa hast breathed : a life spent 
worthily should be measured by a nobler line, by 
deeds, not years. Then wouldst thou murmur 
not, but bless the Providence which in so short a 
span made thee the instrument of wide and spread- 
ing blessings to the helpless and oppressed ! 
Though sinking in decrepit age, he prematurely 
falls, whose memory records no benefit conferred 
by him on man. They only have lived long, who 
have lived virtuously. 

Enter a Soldier, shows the Sentinel a passport, who with- 
draws. 

Alon. What bear you there ? 

Sold. These refreshments I was ordered to leave 
in your dungeon. 

Alon. By whom ordered ? 

Sold. By the lady Elvira : she will be here her- 
self before the dawn. 

Alon. Bear back to her my humblest thanks ; 
and take thou the refreshments, friend — I need 
them not. 

Sold. I have served under you, Don Alonzo. — 
Pardon my saying, that my heart pities you. [Exit. 

Alon. In Pizarro's camp, to pity the unfortunate, 
no doubt requires forgiveness. — [Looking out.] 
Surely, even now, thin streaks of glimmering light 
steal on the darkness of the east. If so, ray life is 
but one hour more. I will not watch the coming 
dawn ; but in the darkness of my cell, my last 
prayer to thee, Power Supreme ! shall be for my 
wife and child ! Grant them to dwell in inno- 
cence and peace ; grant health and purity of mind 
• — all else is worthless. [Retires into the dungeon. 



Sent. Who's there ? answer quickly ! who's 
there ? 

Rol. [Without.] A friar, come to visit your 
prisoner. 

Enter Rolla, disguised as a Monk. 

Rol. Inform me, friend — is not Alonzo, the 
Spanish prisoner, confined in this dungeon ? 

Sent. He is. 

Rol. I must speak with him. 

Sent. You must not. 

Rol. He is my friend. 

Sent. Not if he were your brother. 

Rol. What is to be his fate ? 

Sent. He dies at sunrise. 

Rol. Ha ! then I am come in time. 

Sent. Just — to witness his death. 

Rol. Soldier, I must speak with him. 

Sent. Back, back ! — It is impossible ! 

Rol. I do entreat you but for one moment ! 

Sent. You entreat in vain ; my orders are most 
strict. 

Rol. Even now, I saw a messenger go hence. 

Sent. He brought a pass, which we are all ac- 
customed to obey. 

Rol. Look on this wedge of massive gold — look 
on these precious gems. In thy own land they 
will be wealth for thee and thine, beyond thy hope 
or wish, Take them — they are thine. Let me but 
pass one minute with Alonzo. 

Sent. Away ! wouldst thou corrupt me ? me ! 
an old Castilian ! — I know my duty better. 

Rol. Soldier ! hast thou a wife ? 

Sent. I have. 

Rol. Hast thou children ? 

Sent. Four — honest, lively boys. 

Rol. Where didst thou leave them ? 

Sent. In my native village — even in the cot 
where myself was born. 

Rol. Dost thou love thy children and thy wife ? 

Sent. Do I love them ! God knows my heart, 
—I do. 

Rol. Soldier ! — imagine thou wert doomed to 
die a cruel death in this strange land ; what would 
be thy last request ? 

Sent. That some of my comrades should carry 
my dying blessing to my wife and children. 

Rol. Oh, but if that comrade was at thy prison 



SCENE 



PIZARRO. 



147 



gate — and should there be told— thy fellow-soldier 
dies at sunrise, — yet thou shalt not for a moment 
see him — nor shalt thou bear his dying blessing to 
his poor children or his wretched wife, — what 
wouldst thou think of him, who thus could drive 
thy comrade from the door ? 

Sent. How ! 

Rol. Alonzo has a wife and child — I am come 
but to receive for her and for her babe the last 
blessing of my friend. 

Sent. Go in. [.Retires. 

Rol. Oh ! holy Nature ! thou dost never plead 
in vain. There is not, of our earth, a creature 
bearing form, and life, human or savage, native of 
the forest wild or giddy air, around whose parent 
bosom thou hast not a cord entwined of power to 
tie them to their offspring's claims, and at thy will 
to draw them back to thee. On iron pennons 
borne, the blood-stained vulture cleaves the storm, 
yet is the plumage closest to her heart soft as the 
cygnet's down, and o'er her unshelled brood the 
murmuring ringdove sits not more gently ! Yes, 
now he is beyond the porch, barring the outer 
gate! — Alonzo! Alonzo! my friend! — Ha! in 
gentle sleep ! — Alonzo ! rise ! 

Alon. \ Within.] How ! is my hour elapsed ? — 

Re-enter Alonzo. 

Well, I am ready. 

Rol. Alonzo, know me. 

Alon. What voice is that ? 

Rol. 'TisRolla's. 

Alon. Rolla ! — my friend ! — [Embraces him.] 
Heavens ! how couldst thou pass the guard ? Did 
this habit — 

Rol. There is not a moment to be lost in words. 
This disguise I tore from the dead body of a friar, 
as I passed our field of battle ; it has gained me 
entrance to thy dungeon — now take it thou, and fly. 

Alon. And Rolla — 

Rol. Will remain here in thy place. 

Alon. And die for me ! no ! Rather eternal 
tortures rack me. 

Rol. I shall not die, Alonzo. It is thy life 
Pizarro seeks, not Rolla's ; and from my prison soon 
will thy arm deliver me. Or, should it be other- 
wise, I am as a blighted plantain standing alone 
amid the sandy desert, nothing seeks or lives be- 
neath my shelter. Thou art a husband, and a 
father, the being of a lovely wife and helpless in- 
fant hangs upon thy life. Go ! go ! Alonzo ! go ! 
to save, not thyself, but Cora, and thy child ! 

Alon. Urge me not thus, my friend ! I had 
prepared to die in peace. 

Rol. To die in peace ! devoting her you've 
sworn to live for, to madness, misery, and death ! 
For, be assured, the state I left her in forbids all 
hope, but from thy quick return. 

Alon. Oh, God ! 

Rol. If thou art yet irresolute, Alonzo, now 
heed me well. I think thou hast not known that 
Rolla ever pledged his word, and shrunk from its 
fulfilment. And by the heart of truth I swear, if 
thou art proudly obstinate to deny thy friend the 
transport of preserving Cora's life, in thee, no 
power that sways the will of man shall stir me 
hence ; and thou'lt but have the desperate triumph 
of seeing Rolla perish by thy side, with the assured 
conviction that Cora and thy child are lost for ever. 

Alon. O Rolla ! you distract me ! 



Rol. A moment's further pause, and all is lost. 
The dawn approaches. Fear not for me — I will 
treat with Pizarro as for surrender and submission. 
I shall gain time, doubt not, while thou, with a 
chosen band, passing the secret way, mayst at 
night return — release thy friend, and bear him 
back in triumph. Yes, hasten, dear Alonzo ! 
Even now I hear the frantic Cora call thee ! — 
Haste ! haste ! haste ! 

Alon. Rolla, I fear your friendship drives me 
from honour, and from right. 

Rol. Did Rolla ever counsel dishonour to his 
friend ? 

Alon. Oh ! my preserver ! [Embraces Mm. 

Rol. I feel thy warm tears dropping on my 
cheek. Go! I am rewarded. — [ Throws the Friar's 
garment over Alonzo.] There ! conceal thy face ; 
and that they may not clank, hold fast thy chains. 
Now — God be with thee ! 

Alon. At night we meet again. Then, so aid me 
Heaven ! I return to save — or— perish with thee '. 

[Exit. 

Rol. He has passed the outer porch. He is 
safe ! He will soon embrace his wife and child ! — 
Now, Cora, didst thou not wrong me ? This is 
the first time throughout my life I ever deceived 
man. Forgive me, God of truth ! if I am wrong. 
Alonzo flatters himself that we shall meet again. 
— Yes — there ! — [Lifting his hands to heaven] 
assuredly, we shall meet again : — there possess in 
peace the joys of everlasting love and friendship — 
on earth, imperfect and embittered. I will retire, 
lest the guard return before Alonzo may have 
passed their lines. [Retires into the dungeon. 

Enter Elvira . 

Elv. No, not Pizarro's brutal taunts, not the 
glowing admiration which I feel for this noble 
youth, shall raise an interest in my harassed bosom 
which honour would not sanction. If he reject the 
vengeance my heart has sworn against the tyrant, 
whose death alone can save this land, yet, shall the 
delight be mine to restore him to his Cora's arms, 
to his dear child, and to the unoffending people, 
whom his virtues guide, and valour guards. — 
Alonzo, come forth ! 

Re-enter Rolla. . 
Ha ! who art thou ? where is Alonzo ? 

Rol. Alonzo's fled. 

Elv. Fled ! 

Rol. Yes — and he must not be pursued. — Par- 
don this roughness, — [Seizing her hand] but a i 
moment's precious to Alonzo's flight. 

Elv. What if I call the guard ? 

Rol. Do so — Alonzo still gains time. 

Elv. What if thus I free myself ? 

[Showi 

Rol. Strike it to my heart — still, with the con- 
vulsive grasp of death, I'll hold thee fast. 

Elv. Release me — I give my faith, I neither 
will alarm the guard nor cause pursuit. 

Rol. At onee I trust thy word : a feeling bold- 
ness in those eyes assures me that thy soul is 
noble. 

Elv. What is thy name ? Speak freely : by my 
order the guard is removed beyond the outer porch. 

Rol. My name is Rolla. 

Elv. The Peruvian leader ? 

Rol. I was so yesterday : to-day, the Spaniards' 
captive. 

L2 



148 



PIZARRO. 



ACT IV. 



Elv. And friendship for Alonzo moved thee to 
this act ? 

Rol. Alonzo is my friend, I am prepared to die 
for him. Yet is the cause a motive stronger far 
than friendship. 

Elv. One only passion else could urge such 
generous rashness. 

Rol. And that is — 

Elv. Love ? 

Rol. True! 

Elv. Gallant, ingenuous Rolla ! Know that 
my purpose here was thine ; and were I to save 
thy friend — 

Rol. How ! a woman blessed with gentleness 
and courage, and yet not Cora ! 

Elv. Does Rolla think so meanly of all female 
hearts ? 

Rol. Not so — you are worse and better than 
we are ! 

Elv. Were I to save thee, Rolla, from the 
tyrant's vengeance, restore thee to thy native 
land, and thy native land to peace, wouldst thou 
not rank Elvira with the good ? 

Rol. To judge the action, I must know the means. 

Elv. Take this dagger. 

Rol. How to be used ? 

Elv. I will conduct thee to the tent where fell 
Pizarro sleeps : — The scourge of innocence, the 
terror of thy race, the fiend that desolates thy 
afflicted country. 

Rol. Have you not been injured by Pizarro ? 

Elv. Deeply as scorn and insult can infuse their 
deadly venom. 

Rol. And you ask that I shall murder him in 
his sleep ! 

Elv. Would he not have murdered Alonzo in 
his chains ? He that sleeps, and he that's bound, 
are equally defenceless. Hear me, Rolla — so may 
I prosper in this perilous act, as searching my full 
heart, I have put by all rancorous motive of pri- 
vate vengeance there, and feel that I advance to 
my dread purpose in the cause of human nature, 
and at the call of sacred justice. 

Rol. The God of justice sanctifies no evil as a 
step towards good. Great actions cannot be 
achieved by wicked means. 

Elv. Then, Peruvian ! since thou dost feel so 
coldly for thy country's wrongs, this hand, though 
it revolt ray soul, shall strike the blow. 

Rol. Then is thy destruction certain, and for 
Peru thou perishest ! — Give me the dagger ! 

Elv. Now follow me. — But first, and dreadful is 
the hard necessity, you must strike down the guard. 

Rol. The soldier who was on duty here ? 

Elv. Yes, him — else, seeing thee, the alarm will 
be instant. 

Rol. And I must stab that soldier as I pass ? — 
Take back thy dagger. 

Elv. Rolla! 

Rol. That soldier, mark me, is a man. All are 
not men that bear the human form. He refused 
my prayers, refused my gold, denying to admit me, 
till his own feelings bribed him . For my nation's 
safety, I would not harm that man ! 

Elv. Then he must with us — I will answer for 
his safety. 

Rol. Be that plainly understood between us : 
— for, whate'er betide our enterprise, I will not 
risk a hair of that man's head, to save my heart- 
strings from consuming fire. [Exeunt. 



SCENE II.— Pizarro's Tent. 
Pizarro is discovered on a couch, in disturbed sleep. 

Piz. [In his sleep.} No mercy, traitor ! — Now 
at his heart ! — Stand off there, you ! — Let me see 
him bleed ! — Ha ! ha ! ha !— Let me hear that 
groan again. 

Enter Rolla and Elvira. 

Elv. There ! — Now, lose not a moment. 

Rol. You must leave me now. This scene of 
blood fits not a woman's presence. 

Elv. But a moment's pause may — 

Rol. Go, retire to your own tent, and return 
not here — I will come to you. Be thou not known 
in this business, I implore you ! 

Elv. I will withdraw the guard that waits. [Exit. 

Rol. Now have I in my power the accursed 
destroyer of my country's peace : yet tranquilly he 
rests. — God ! — can this man sleep ? 

Piz. [In his sleep.] Away ! away ! — Hideous 
fiends ! — Tear not my bosom thus ! 

Rol. No : I was in error — the balm of sweet 
repose he never more can know. Look here, 
ambition's fools ! ye, by whose inhuman pride the 
bleeding sacrifice of nations is held as nothing, 
behold the rest of the guilty ! — He is at my mercy 
— and one blow ! — No ! my heart and hand refuse 
the act : Rolla cannot be an assassin ! — Yet Elvira 
must be saved! — [Approaches the couch.] Piz- 
arro ! awake ! 

Piz. [Starts up.] Who ?— Guard !— 

Rol. Speak not — another word is thy death. 
Call not for aid ! this arm will be swifter than thy 
guard. 

Piz. Who art thou ? and what is thy will ? 

Rol. I am thine enemy ! Peruvian Rolla ! 
Thy death is not my will, or I could have slain 
thee sleeping. 

Piz. Speak, what else ? 

Rol. Now thou art at my mercy — answer me ! 
Did a Peruvian ever yet wrong or injure thee, or 
any of thy nation ? Didst thou, or any of thy 
nation, ever yet show mercy to a Peruvian in your 
power ? Now shalt thou feel, and if thou hast a 
heart thou'lt feel it keenly, a Peruvian's vengeance ! 
— [Drops the dagger at his feet.] There ! 

Piz. Is it possible ! [Walks aside confounded. 

Rol. Can Pizarro be surprised at this ? I 
thought forgiveness of injuries had been the Chris- 
tian's precept. Thou seest, at least, it is the 
Peruvian's practice. 

Piz. Rolla, thou hast indeed surprised — subdued 
me . [ Walks again aside as in irresolute thought. 

Re-enter Elvira, not seeing Pizarro. 

Elv. Is it done ? Is he dead?— [Sees Pizarro.] 
How ! still living ! Then I am lost ! And for 
you, wretched Peruvians ! mercy is no more ! — 
O Rolla ! treacherous, or cowardly ? 

Piz. How ! can it be that — 

Rol. Away! — Elvira speaks she knows not what ! 
— [ To Elvira.] Leave me, I conjure you, with 
Pizarro. 

Elv. How ! Rolla, dost thou think Lshall retract ? 
or that I meanly will deny, that in thy hand I 
placed a poniard to be plunged into that tyrant's 
heart ? No : my sole regret is, that I trusted to 
thy weakness, and did not strike the blow myself. 



SCENE II. 



PIZARRO. 



149 



Too soon thou'lt learn that mercy to that man is 
direct cruelty to all thy race ! 

Piz. Guard ! quick ! a guard, to seize this frantic 
woman. 

Elv. Yes, a guard ! I call them too ! And soon 
I know they'll lead me to my death. But think 
not, Pizarro, the fury of thy flashing eyes shall 
awe me for a moment ! Nor think that woman's 
anger, or the feelings of an injured heart, prompted 
me to this design — no ! Had I been only influenced 

so thus failing, shame and remorse would weigh 

me down. But though defeated and destroyed, as 
now I am, such is the greatness of the cause that 
urged me, I shall perish, glorying in the attempt, 
and my last breath of life shall speak the proud 
avowal of my purpose — to have rescued millions 
of innocents from the bloodthirsty tyranny of one 
— by ridding the insulted world of thee. 

Rol. Had the act been noble as the motive — 
Rolla would not have shrunk from its performance. 

Enter Guards. 

Piz. Seize this discovered fiend, who sought to 
kill your leader. 

Elv. Touch me not, at the peril of your souls ; 
— I am your prisoner, and will follow you — But 
thou, their triumphant leader, shalt hear me. Yet, 
first — for thee, Rolla, accept my forgiveness ; even 
had I been the victim of thy nobleness of heart, I 
should have admired thee for it. But 'twas myself 
provoked my doom : — thou wouldst have shielded 
me. Let not thy contempt follow me to the grave. 
Didst thou but know the spell-like arts by which 
this hypocrite first undermined the virtue of a 
guileless heart ! how, even in the pious sanctuary 
wherein I dwelt, by corruption and by fraud, he 
practised upon those in whom I most confided — 
till my distempered fancy led me, step by step, 
into the abyss of guilt — 

Piz. Why am I not obeyed ? Tear her hence ! 

Elv. 'Tis past — but didst thou know my story, 
Rolla, thou wouldst pity me. 

Rol. From my soul I do pity thee ! 

Piz. Villains ! drag her to the dungeon ! — pre- 
pare the torture instantly. 

Elv. Soldiers, but a moment more — 'tis to 
applaud your general. — It is to tell the astonished 
world, that, for once, Pizarro's sentence is an act 
of justice : yes, rack me with the sharpest tortures 
that ever agonised the human frame, it will be 
justice. Yes, bid the minions of thy fury wrench 
forth the sinews of those arms that have caressed, 
and even have defended thee ! Bid them pour 
burning metal into the bleeding cases of these eyes, 
that so oft — oh, God ! — have hung with love and 
homage on thy looks — then approach me bound on 
the abhorred wheel — there glut thy savage eyes 
with the convulsive spasms of that dishonoured 
bosom, which was once thy pillow ! — Yet will I 
bear it all ; for it will be justice, all ! And when 
thou shalt bid them tear me to my death, hoping 
that thy unshrinking ears may at last be feasted 
with the music of my cries, I will not utter one 
shriek ©r groan, but to the last gasp my body's 
patience shall deride thy vengeance, as my soul 
defies thy power. 

Piz. Hearest thou the wretch whose hands were 
even now prepared for murder ? 

Rol. Yes ! and if her accusation's false, thou 
wilt not shrink from hearing her : if true, thy bar- 



barity cannot make her suffer the pangs thy 
conscience will inflict on thee. 

Elv. And now, farewell, world! — Rolla, fare- 
well !— Farewell, thou condemned of Heaven ! [to 
Pizarro] for repentance and remorse, I know, 
will never touch thy heart. — We shall meet again, 
— Ha ! be it thy horror here to know that we shall 
meet hereafter ! And when thy parting hour 
approaches — hark to the knell, whose dreadful beat 
will strike to thy despairing soul. Then will vibrate 
on thy ear the curses of the cloistered saint from 
whom you stole me. Then the last shrieks which 
burst from my mother's breaking heart, as she 
died, appealing to her God against the seducer of 
her child ! Then the blood-stifled groan of my 
murdered brother — murdered by thee, fell monster ! 
— seeking atonement for his sister's ruined honour. 
— I hear them now ! To me the recollection's 
madness ! — At such an hour — what will it be to 
thee? 

Piz. A moment's more delay, and at the peril 
of your lives — 

Elv. I have spoken — and the last mortal frailty 
of my heart is past. — And now, with an undaunted 
spirit and unshaken firmness, I go to meet my 
destiny. That I could not live nobly, has been 
Pizarro's act : that I will die nobly, shall be my 
own. [Exit, guarded. 

Piz. Rolla, I would not thou, a warrior, valiant 
and renowned, shouldst credit the vile tales of this 
frantic woman. The cause of all this fury — O ! 
a wanton passion for the rebel youth Alonzo, now 
my prisoner. 

Rol. Alonzo is not now thy prisoner. 

Piz. How! 

Rol. I came to rescue him — to deceive his guard 
— I have succeeded ; — I remain thy prisoner. 

Piz. Alonzo fled ! — Is then the vengeance 
dearest to my heart never to be gratified ? 

Rol. Dismiss such passions from thy heart, then 
thou'lt consult its peace. 

Piz. I can face all enemies that dare confront 
me — I cannot war against my nature. 

Rol. Then, Pizarro, ask not to be deemed a 
hero: to triumph o'er ourselves is the only conquest 
where fortune makes no claim. In battle, chance 
may snatch the laurel from thee, or chance may 
place it on thy brow, but in a contest with yourself, 
be resolute, and the virtuous impulse must be the 
victor. 

Piz. Peruvian ! thou shalt not find me to thee 
ungrateful or ungenerous. Return to your country- 
men — you are at liberty. 

Rol. Thou dost act in this as honour and as 
duty bid thee. 

Piz. I cannot but admire thee, Rolla : I would 
we might be friends. 

Rol. Farewell ! pity Elvira ! become the friend 
of virtue — and thou wilt be mine. [Exit. 

Piz. Ambition ! tell me what is the phantom I 
have followed ? where is the one delight which it 
has made my own ? My fame is the mark of 
envy, my love the dupe of treachery, my glory 
eclipsed by the boy I taught, my revenge defeated 
and rebuked by the rude honour of a savage foe, 
before whose native dignity of soul I have sunk 
confounded and subdued ! I would I could retrace 
my steps ! — I cannot. Would I could evade my 
own reflections ! — No ! thought and memory are 
my hell I [Exit 



150 



PIZARRO. 



ACT V. 



SCENE I.— A Fori 



;t. In the back-ground, a 
Hut. 
Cora is discovered leaning over her Child, who is laid on a 
bed of leaves and moss. — A Storm, with thunder and 
lightning. 

Cora. O Nature ! thou hast not the strength of 
love. My anxious spirit is untired in its march ; 
my wearied shivering frame sinks under it. And 
for thee, my boy, when faint beneath thy lovely 
burden, could I refuse to give thy slumbers that 
poor bed of rest ! O my child ! were I assured 
thy father breathes no more, how quickly would T 
lay me down by thy dear side ! — but down — down 
for ever! — [Thunder and lightning.'] I ask thee 
not, unpitying storm ! to abate thy rage, in mercy 
to poor Cora's misery ; nor while thy thunders 
spare his slumbers will I disturb my sleeping 
cherub. Though Heaven knows I wish to hear 
the voice of life, and feel that life is near me. 
But I will endure all while what I have of reason 
holds. [Sings. 

YeSj yes, be merciless, thou tempest dire ; 

Unaw'd, unshelter'd, I thy fury brave : 
I'll bare my bosom to thy forked fire, 

Let it but guide me to Alonzo's grave ! 

O'er his pale corse then while thy lightnings glare, 
I'll press his clay-cold lips, and perish there. 

But thou wilt wake again, my boy, 
Again thou'lt rise to life and joy — 

Thy father never ! — 
Thy laughing eyes will meet the light, 
Unconscious that eternal night 

Veils his for ever. 

On yon green bed of moss there lies my child. 
Oh ! safer lies from these chill'd arms apart ; 

He sleeps, sweet lamb ! nor heeds the tempest wild, 
Oh ! sweeter sleeps, than near this breaking heart. 

Alas ! my babe, if thou wouldst peaceful rest, 
Thy cradle must not be thy mother's breast. 

Yet, thou wilt wake again, my boy, 
Again thou'lt rise to life and joy — 

Thy father never ! — 
Thy laughing eyes will meet the light, 
Unconscious that eternal night 

Veils his for ever, [Thunder and lightning. 

Still, still implacable ! unfeeling elements ! yet 
still dost thou sleep, my smiling innocent ! O 
death ! when wilt thou grant to this babe's mother 
such repose ? Sure I may shield thee better from 
the storm ; my veil may — 

[ While she is wrapping her mantle and her veil over 
him, Alonzo's voice is heard at a great distance. 

A Ion. Cora ! 

Cora. Ha ! [Rises. 

Alon. Cora! 

Cora. Oh, my heart ! Sweet Heaven, deceive 
me not ! — Is it not Alonzo's voice ? 

Alon. [Nearer.] Cora! 

Cora. It is — it is Alonzo ! 

Alon. [Nearer still.'] Cora! my beloved! — 

Cora. Alonzo ! — Here ! here ! — Alonzo ! 

[Runs out 



Enter two Spanish Soldiers. 

1 Sold. I tell you we are near our out-posts, 
and the word we heard just now was the counter- 
sign. 

2 Sold. Well, in our escape from the enemy, to 
have discovered their secret passage through the 
rocks, will prove a lucky chance to us. Pizarro 
will reward us. 

1 Sold. This way : the sun, though clouded, is 
on our left. — [Perceives the Child.] What have 
we here ? — A child, as I'm a soldier ! 

2 Sold. 'Tis a sweet little babe ! Now would it 
be a great charity to take this infant from its 
pagan mother's power. 

1 Sold. It would so : I have one at home shall 
play with it. — Come along. [Exeunt with the Child. 

Cora. [ Without.] This way, dear Alonzo ! 
Re-enter Cora with Alonzo. 
Now am I right — there — there — under that tree. 
Was it possible the instinct of a mother's heart could 
mistake the spot ? Now will you look at him as 
he sleeps, or shall I bring him waking, with his full 
blue laughing eyes, to welcome you at once ? — 
Yes, yes ! — Stand thou there ; I'll snatch him from 
his rosy slumber, blushing like the perfumed morn. 
[She runs up to the spot, and finding only the mantle 
and veil, ivhich she tears from the ground, and the 
Child gone, shrieks. 

Alon. [Running to her.] Cora ! my heart's 
beloved ! 

Cora. He is gone ! 

Alon. Eternal God ! 

Cora. He is gone ! — my child ! my child ! 

Alon. Where did you leave him ? 

Cora. [Dashing herself on the spot.] Here ! 

Alon. Be calm, beloved Cora ; he has waked 
and crept to a little distance ; we shall find him. 
Are you assured this was the spot you left him in ? 

Cora. Did not these hands make that bed and 
shelter for him ? and is not this the veil that 
covered him ? 

Alon. Here is a hut yet unobserved. 

Cora. Ha ! yes, yes ! there lives the savage i 
that has robbed me of my child. — [Beats at the | 
door.] Give me back my child ! restore to me my I 
boy! 

Enter Las-Casas from the hut.' 

Las -C as. Who calls me from my wretched J 
solitude ? 

Cora. Give me back my child ! — [Goes into the 
hut, and calls] Fernando ! 

Alon. Almighty powers ! do my eyes deceive j 
me ? Las-Casas ! 

Las-Cas. Alonzo, my beloved young friend ! 

Alon. My revered instructor ! [Embracing. 

Re-enter Cora. 

Cora, Will you embrace this man before he 
restores my boy ? 

Alon. Alas, my friend ! in what a moment of 
misery do we meet ! 

Cora. Yet his look is goodness and humanity. — 
Good old man, have compassion on a wretched 



SCENE II. 



PIZARRO. 



151 



mother, and I will be your servant while I live.— 
But do not— for pity's sake, do not say you have 
him not ; do not say you have not seen him. 

[Runs into the wood. 

Las-Cas. What can this mean ? 

Alon. She is my wife. Just rescued from the 
Spaniards' prison, I learned she had fled to this 
wild forest. Hearing my voice, she left the child, 
and flew to meet me : he was left sleeping under 
yonder tree. 

Re-enter Cora. 

Las-Cas. How ! did you leave him ? 

Cora. Oh, you are right ! right ! unnatural mo- 
ther that I was ! I left my child, I forsook my 
innocent !— But I will fly to the earth's brink but 
I will find him. {.Runs out, 

Alon. Forgive me, Las-Casas, I must follow 
her ; for at night I attempt brave Rolla's rescue. 

Las-Cas. I will not leave thee, Alonzo. You 
must try to lead her to the right : that way lies 
your camp. Wait not my infirm steps : I follow 
thee, my friend. [Exeunt. 



SCENE II. — The Outpost of the Spanish Camp. 
In the back-ground a torrent, over which a 
bridge is formed by a felled tree. Trumpets 
sound without. 

Enter Almagro, followed by Soldiers leading Rolla in 
chains. 

Aim. Bear him along ; his story must be false. 

Rol. False ! Rolla utter falsehood ! I would I 
had thee in a desert with thy troop around thee, 
and I but with my sword in this unshackled 
liand ! [Trumpets without. 

Aim. Is it to be credited, that Rolla, the 
renowned Peruvian hero, should be detected like 
a spy, skulking through our camp ? 

Rol. Skulking! 

Aim. But answer to the general ; he is here. 

Enter Pizarro. 

Piz. What do I see ? Rolla ! 

Rol. Oh, to thy surprise, no doubt ! 

Piz. And bound too ! 

Rol. So fast, thou needest not fear approaching 
me. 

Aim. The guards surprised him passing our out- 
post. 

Piz. Release him instantly !— Believe me, I 
regret this insult. 

Rol. You feel then as you ought. 

Piz. Nor can I brook to see a warrior of Rolla's 
fame disarmed. — Accept this, though it has been 
thy enemy's. — {Gives a sword.] The Spaniards 
know the courtesy that's due to valour. 

Rol. And the Peruvian how to forget offence. 

Piz. May not Rolla and Pizarro cease to be 
foes ? 

Rol. When the sea divides us ; yes ! — May I 
now depart ? 

Piz. Freely. 

Rol. And shall I not again be intercepted ? 

Piz. No ! — Let the word be given that Rolla 
passes freely. 

Enter Da villa and Soldiers, with Alonzo's Child. 
Dav. Here are two soldiers, captived yesterday, 
who have escaped from the Peruvian hold, — and 



by the secret way we have so long endeavoured to 
discover. 

Piz. Silence, imprudent ! — Seest thou not — ? 

[Pointing to Rolla . 

Dav. In their way, they found a Peruvian child, 
who seems — 

Piz. What is the imp to me ? — Bid them toss it 
into the sea. 

Rol. Gracious Heavens ! it is Alonzo's child ? — 
give it to me. 

Piz. Ha ! Alonzo's child ! — Welcome, thou 
pretty hostage. — Now Alonzo is again my prisoner ! 

Rol. Thou wilt not keep the infant from its 
mother ? 

Piz. Will I not! — What, when I shall meet 
Alonzo in the heat of the victorious fight — thinkest 
thou I shall not have a check upon the valour of 
his heart, when he is reminded that a word of mine 
is this child's death ? 

Rol. I do not understand you. 

Piz. My vengeance has a long arrear of hate to 
settle with Alonzo ! and this pledge may help to 
settle the account. 

Rol. Man ! man ! art thou a man ? couldst thou 
hurt that innocent ?— By Heaven ! it's smiling in 
thy face. 

Piz. Tell me, does it resemble Cora ? 

Rol. Pizarro ! thou hast set my heart on fire. 
If thou dost harm that child — think not his blood 
will sink into the barren sand. — No ! faithful to 
the eager hope that now trembles in this indignant 
heart, 'twill rise to the common God of nature and 
humanity, and cry aloud for vengeance on his 
accursed destroyer's head. 

Piz. Be that peril mine. 

Rol. {Throwing himself at his feet.'] Behold me 
at thy feet — me, Rolla ! — me, the preserver of thy 
life ! — me, that have never yet bent or bowed before 
created man ! — In humble agony I sue to you — 
prostrate I implore you — but spare that child, and 
I will be your slave. 

Piz. Rolla ! still art thou free to go — this boy 
remains with me. 

Rol. Then was this sword Heaven's gift, not 
thine ! — [Seizes the Child.] Who moves one step 
to follow me, dies upon the spot. 

[Exit with the Child. 

Piz. Pursue him instantly — but spare his life. — 
[Exeunt Davilla and Almagro with Soldiers.] 
With what fury he defends himself ! — Ha ! he fells 
them to the ground — and now — 

Re-enter Almagro. 

Aim. Three of your brave soldiers are already 
victims to your command to spare this madman's 
life ; and if he once gains the thicket — 

Piz. Spare him no longer. — {Exit Almagro.] 
Their guns must reach him — he'll yet escape — hol- 
loa to those horse — the Peruvian sees them — and 
now he turns among the rocks— then is his retreat 
cut off. — [Roll A crosses the wooden bridge over 
the cataract, pursued by the Soldiers — they fire at 
him — a shot strikes him. ] Now! quick! quick! 
seize the child ! 

[Rolla tears from the rock the tree which supports the 
bridge, and retreats by the back-ground, bearing off 
the Child. 

Re-enter Almagro and Davilla. 
Aim. By hell ! he has escaped ! — and with the 
child unhurt. 



152 



PIZARRO. 



Dav. No — he bears bis death with him. Believe 
me, I saw him struck upon the side. 

Piz. But the child is saved — Alonzo's child ! 
Oh ! the furies of disappointed vengeance ! 

Aim. Away with the revenge of words ! — let us 
to deeds. Forget not we have acquired the know- 
ledge of the secret pass, wbich through the rocky 
cavern's gloom brings you at once to the strong- 
hold, where are lodged their women and their 
treasures. 

Piz. Right, Almagro ! Swift as thy thought 
draw forth a daring and a chosen band — I will not 
wait for numbers. — Stay, Almagro ! Valverde is 
informed Elvira dies to-day ? 

Aim. He is — and one request alone she — 

Piz. I'll hear of none. 

Aim. The boon is small — 'tis but for the novi- 
ciate habit which you first beheld her in — she wishes 
not to suffer in the gaudy trappings, which remind 
her of her shame. 

Piz. Well, do as thou wilt — but tell Valverde, 
at our return, as his life shall answer it, to let me 
hear that she is dead. {Exeunt severally. 



SCENE III.— Ataliba's Tent. 

Enter Ataliba, followed by Cora and Alonzo. 

Cora. Oh ! avoid me not, Ataliba ! To whom, 
but to her king, is the wretched mother to address 
her griefs ? The gods refuse to hear my prayers ! 
Did not my Alonzo fight for you ? and will not my 
sweet boy, if thou'lt but restore him to me, one 
day fight thy battles too ? 

Alon. Oh ! my suffering love — my poor heart- 
broken Cora ! — you but wound our sovereign's 
feeling soul, and not relieve thy own. 

Cora. Is he our sovereign, and has he not the 
power to give me back my child ? 

Ata. When I reward desert, or can relieve my 
people, I feel what is the real glory of a king — when 
I hear them suffer, and cannot aid them, I mourn 
the impotence of all mortal power. 

Soldiers. [Without.] Rolla '.Rolla! Rolla! 

Enter Rolla, bleeding, with the Child, followed by 
Peruvian Soldiers. 

Rol. Thy child! 

{Gives the Child into Cora's arms, and falls. 
Cora. Oh God ! — there's blood upon him ! 
Rol. 'Tis my blood, Cora ! 
Alon. Rolla, thou diest ! 
Rol. For thee, and Cora. {Dies. 

Enter Orano. 

Ora. Treachery has revealed our asylum in the 
rocks. Even now the foe assails the peaceful band 
retired for protection there. 

Alon. Lose not a moment ! Swords, be quick ! 
Your wives and children cry to you. Bear our 
loved hero's body in the van : 'twill raise the fury 
of our men to madness. Now, fell Pizarro ! the 
death of one of us is near ! — Away ! Be the word 
of assault, Revenge and Rolla ! [Exeunt. Charge. 



SCENE IV. — A Recess among the Rocks. 

Enter Pizarro, Almagro, Valverde, and Spanish 
Soldiers. 
Piz. Well ! if surrounded, we must perish in 
the centre of them. Where do Rolla and Alonzo 
hide their heads ? 

Enter Alonzo, Orano, and Peruvian Warriors. 
Alon. Alonzo answers thee, and Alonzo's sword 
shall speak for Rolla. 

Piz. Thou knowest the advantage of thy 
numbers. Thou darest not singly face Pizarro. 

Alon. Peruvians, stir not a man ! Be this con 
test only ours. 

Piz. Spaniards! observe ye the same. — [Charge. 
They fight. Alonzo's shield is broken, and he is 
beat down.] Now, traitor, to thy heart ! 

[At this moment Elvira enters, habited as when 
Pizarro first beheld her. Pizarro, appalled, stag- 
gers back. Alonzo renews the fight, and slays Mm. 
Loud shouts from the Peruvians. 

Enter Ataliba. 
Ata. My brave Alonzo ! [Embraces Alonzo. 

Aim. Alonzo, we submit. — Spare us ! we will 
embark, and leave the coast. 

Vol. Elvira will confess I saved her life ; she 
has saved thine. 

Alon. Fear not. You are safe. 

[Spaniards lay down their arms. 
Elv. Valverde speaks the truth ; nor could he 
think to meet me here. An awful impulse which 
my soul could not resist impelled me hither. 

Alon. Noble Elvira ! my preserver ! How can 
I speak what I, Ataliba, and his rescued country, 
owe to thee ! If amid this grateful nation thou 
wouldst remain — 

Elv. Alonzo, no ! the destination of my future 
life is fixed. Humbled in penitence, I will endea- 
vour to atone the guilty errors, which, however 
masked by shallow cheerfulness, have long con- 
sumed my secret heart. When, by my sufferings 
purified, and penitence sincere, my soul shall dare 
address the throne of mercy in behalf of others, 
for thee, Alonzo, for thy Cora, and thy child, for 
thee, thou virtuous monarch, and the innocent 
race you reign over, shall Elvira's prayers address 
the God of nature. — Valverde, you have preserved 
my life. Cherish humanity, avoid the foul exam- 
ples thou hast viewed. — Spaniards, returning to 
your native home, assure your rulers they mistake 
the road to glory or to power. Tell them, that the 
pursuits of avarice, conquest, and ambition, never 
yet made a people happy, or a nation great. 
[Casts a look of agony on the dead body of Pizarro as 
she passes, and exit. Flourish of trumpets- Val- 
verde, Almagro, and Spanish Soldiers, exeunt, 
bearing off Plzarro's body. 
Alon. Ataliba ! think not I wish to check the 
voice of triumph, when I entreat we first may pay 
the tribute due to our loved Rolla's memory. 
[A solemn march. Procession of Peruvian Soldiers, 
bearing Rolla's body on a bier, surrounded by mili- 
tary trophies. The Priests and Priestesses attending 
chant a dirge over the bier. Alonzo and Cora kneel 
on either side of it, and kiss Rolla's hands in silent 
agony. The curtain slowly descends. 



J 



PIZARRO. 



153 



EPILOGUE, 

WRITTEN BY THE HON. WILLIAM LAMB. 
SPOKEN BY MRS. JORDAN. 



Ere yet suspense has still'd its throbbing fear, 

Or melancholy wiped the grateful tear, 

While e'en the miseries of a sinking state, 

A monarch's danger, and a nation's fate, 

Command not now your eyes with grief to flow, 

Lost in a trembling mother's nearer wo ; 

What moral lay shall poetry rehearse, 

Or how shall elocution poxir the verse 

So sweetly, that its music shall repay 

The loved illusion which it drives away ? 

Mine is the task, to rigid custom due, 

To me ungrateful as 'tis harsh to you, 

To mar the work the tragic scene has wrought, 

To rouse the mind that broods in pensive thought, 

To scare reflection, which, in absent dreams, 

Still lingers musing on the recent themes ; 

Attention, ere with contemplation tired, 

To turn from all that pleased, from all that fired ; 

To weaken lessons strongly now impress'd, 

And chill the interest glowing in the breast — 

Mine is the task ; and be it mine to spare 

The souls that pant, the griefs they see, to share ; 

Let me with no unhallow'd jest deride 

The sigh, that sweet compassion owns with pride — 

The sigh of comfort, to affliction dear, 

That kindness heaves, and virtue loves to hear. 

E'en gay Thalia will not now refuse 

This gentle homage to her sister-muse. 

O ye, who listen to the plaintive strain, 
With strange enjoyment, and with rapturous pain, 
Who erst have felt the Stranger's lone despair, 
And Haller's settled, sad, remorseful care, 
Does Rolla's pure affection less excite 
The inexpressive anguish of delight ? 



Do Cora's fears, which beat without control, 

With less* solicitude engross the soul ? 

Ah, no ! your minds with kindred zeal approve 

Maternal feeling, and heroic love. 

You must approve : where man exists below, 

In temperate climes, or midst drear wastes of 

snow, 
Or where the solar fires incessant flame, 
Thy laws, all-powerful Nature, are the same : 
Vainly the sophist boasts, he can explain 
The causes of thy universal reign — 
More vainly would his cold presumptuous art 
Disprove thy general empire o'er the heart : 
A voice proclaims thee, that we must believe, 
A voice, that surely speaks not to deceive ; 
That voice poor Cora heard, and closely press'd 
Her darling infant to her fearful breast ; 
Distracted dared the bloody field to tread, 
And sought Alonzo through the heaps of dead, 
Eager to catch the music of his breath, 
Though faltering in the agonies of death, 
To touch his lips, though pale and cold, once 

more, 
And clasp his bosom, though it stream'd with gore ; 
That voice too Rolla heard, and, greatly brave, 
His Cora's dearest treasure died to save ; 
Gave to the hopeless parent's arms her child, 
Beheld her transports, and, expiring, smiled. 
That voice we hear — oh ! be its will obey'd ! 
'Tis valour's impulse, and 'tis virtue's aid — 
It prompts to all benevolence admires, 
To all that heavenly piety inspires, 
To all that praise repeats through lengthen'd years, 
! That honour sanctifies, and time reveres. 



THE END. 



LONDON : 
BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS. 



n«vr 5 - 1950 



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